The Zeppelin Deception Page 17

  One was, and would continue to be, the murder of poor Mr. Boggs.

  But the other was a more recent concern, for once I’d decided to embark on a “flapper girl” design for Evaline’s masquerade, I knew it would behoove me to speak to Dylan about it.

  As I have previously mentioned in this narrative, my futuristic friend and I had been having some difficulties relative to our association. I have no shame in admitting I felt hurt and betrayed when I learned he’d returned to 1889 London from 2016 London and had not sought me out.

  I spoke to him about it in a very composed manner, but he apparently realized the depth of my distress.

  “Oh, man, Mina, I know,” he said, looking at me with those beautiful blue eyes. (His habit of referring to me as a man was always a bit confusing and off-putting, but I’d learned to ignore it as a particular affectation from his era.) “I really goofed”—apparently to goof meant that he acknowledged his failings—“and I’m so sorry. I just got caught up in the whole spy thing, you know? I was undercover with Miss Adler, and there was all this sneaking around and stuff and I just forgot about it. About contacting you, I mean.”

  “You forgot about me?”

  What was it about myself that made people who supposedly cared to forget about me?

  My father barely recognized my existence, my mother had disappeared and hadn’t had the courtesy to contact me in more than a year…and now Dylan Eckhert, a young man I’d become quite close to and had come to trust because he saw me as someone different from the other young ladies of my society…had simply “forgotten” to contact me when he returned from the most mind-boggling journey ever?

  “Mina, I couldn’t stop thinking about you when I got back to my own time. I really missed you. But then I came back with Miss Adler’s help, and she needed me to help her—and it just got very busy. I was practicing the music and teaching her the songs… I’m so sorry. I’m such a jerk.” I hoped that “jerk” was a slang term that meant fool or even something worse. “I know it.”

  “Thank you for the apology,” I replied. And although I was very glad to see him again, I realized my affections for him had waned.

  Partly because, in our case, absence had not made my heart (and presumably his as well) grow fonder, but also because I’d found myself more intrigued by my physically demonstrative encounter with Grayling.

  Dylan and I attempted to return to our casual, comfortable friendship, but things were different. We met for tea several times, but those times felt slightly awkward for me, as I still felt confused about his lack of empathy toward me.

  After one particular luncheon at Gateway Cafe when our conversation had trickled into the most mundane of topics, as I took my leave, Dylan indicated he would contact me in a few days (he’d returned to working at St. Bart’s Hospital now that his so-called undercover work was finished). I hardly realized when a week had gone by and he hadn’t done so. As I felt no great disappointment over the lapse, I gave it little thought.

  I assumed Dylan had merely become distracted by his bread mold project at the hospital. And I was busy myself with all of the cases Miss Adler was sending to me.

  But yesterday, more than a month after I’d expected to hear from Dylan, I went to see him at the hospital because I wanted to get more information about the flapper girls. He’d already described their appearance to me, but I had more questions that had arisen as I’d begun to imagine the costume.

  Imagine my surprise when I learned that Dylan Eckhert had not been seen at St. Bart’s Hospital for over a month.

  He had disappeared.

  Miss Stoker

  ~ The Masquerade Commences ~

  Florence had arranged for my birthday masquerade fête to be held at the Starlight Palace, which was the same place the welcome ball for the Betrovians had been offered last summer. That evening held little but unpleasant memories for me, and if I had realized she was planning it here, I might have objected.

  I suppose that was my fault for not paying attention. I simply had not been myself since the engagement had been announced.

  The last time I was in this place was the same night Mina and I—and everyone else—had watched Princess Lurelia nearly fall to her death from one of the balconies above us. Miss Adler had not been pleased with our performance, and had dismissed us the next morning. (We had later been re-engaged, but that was because of Lurelia’s personal demand.)

  That evening, I’d also danced with Pix—who’d been disguised as an American known as Martin Vanderbleeth.

  I knew there would not be a repeat of that particular event tonight.

  Along with the Starlight Terrace’s regular décor (long, silken banners in all shades of dark blue and black that were supposed to evoke the idea of night), there were long, graceful spirals of delicate lights suspended from the ceiling. They bounced gently with every movement of the air as moving stairs and open lifts transported the equally glittering guests up, down, and side to side. Old-fashioned candles were arranged in elaborate clusters of ten to twenty lights per stem, and these elegant silver candelabra were scattered throughout the room.

  Glittering copper and gold swags were draped over tables and doorways, and a large fountain illuminated with blue lights sparkled in the center of the dance floor. Because it was winter, there were few floral arrangements. Instead, massive tree branches—each thicker than a man’s torso—had been painted silver or gold. Countless tiny lanterns were hung from the branches, which were suspended horizontally and at different heights over the ballroom, creating a forestlike ceiling of shiny, bare branches. One long midnight-blue stretch of fabric, glittering with gold and copper embroidery, was draped artistically over some of the branches, and its end dangled gently down to the fountain.

  The orchestra was set up on a small dais next to the fountain, placing the musicians in the center of the dance floor in an unusual arrangement. I thought it was ingenious, having the full view of the floor blocked. That meant it would be easier to avoid people that I wished to avoid.

  Which was both simpler and more challenging than at a normal ball, for, of course, everyone was wearing masks tonight.

  Florence had not been enthusiastic when I told her I’d made some changes to my costume at the last minute, but she was too busy to argue with me—probably because I didn’t exactly tell her that I’d completely changed it and would no longer be going as Marie Antoinette. I figured she’d learn eventually, and the anonymity I’d have until that time would be delightful.

  I was ecstatic that I was no longer reduced to wearing the wide, cumbersome panniers of an eighteenth-century French queen—not to mention a wig half as tall as I was. It was heavy.

  I was on the lookout for a lioness-headed Sekhmet costume, while at the same time wondering how Miss Adler would come costumed.

  I learned the answer to this second question almost immediately.

  “Diana the Huntress,” murmured a masked woman at my elbow as she swept her gaze over my clothing, then into my eyes as if to confirm her suspicions.

  I turned, recognizing Miss Adler’s voice—and even then I wasn’t certain it truly was her until I got a good look in her eyes.

  “Ah, it is you,” she said with a smile. “I wasn’t certain. I’d heard you were coming as Marie Antoinette.”

  That was the only reason I tolerated masquerade parties: no one truly knew who anyone else was until midnight, when we were all unmasked. I’d insisted to Florence that we hold to that tradition, even though she’d merely wanted a costume ball.

  True, oftentimes there were rumors, and hints were dropped and secrets were shared about what costumes were to be worn at masquerade balls—for how else were ladies to identify their friends or the gentlemen they wanted to dance with?—but unless you knew for certain how someone was coming dressed, it was nearly impossible to recognize them.

  “Good evening, Miss Adler,” I replied quietly. “I was, but I changed my mind.”

  “This ensemble suits you much better
,” she replied.

  I agreed completely. Madame Trouxeau truly was a genius. She’d managed to create for me—in a ridiculously short time—the long column of a Grecian-style gown made from a stunning, glittery bronze fabric. The cloth was airy and light and shifted like the air with even the slightest movement. It draped like a dream, pooling just over my sandal-covered feet and giving a hint of what I wore under it.

  There was a strapless tubelike chemise that ended just above my knees for modesty. But over that was my favorite part of the costume, which had actually been conceived by Madame Trouxeau’s assistant: a street-fashion corset of some thick but flexible material that looked rather like a Roman gladiator’s costume, with a knee-length skirt made from the same leather-like substance of the corset.

  The gown fell in such a way so as to reveal the gladiator armor in subtle hints. The airy bronze fabric was gathered over one shoulder with a massive bronze, copper, and jet brooch in the shape of two flowers, each as large as a teacup, one above the other. The brooch was mechanical (I had to wind it up occasionally), and its soft hum was hardly noticeable as it moved gently, the flowers rotating in slow circles on tiny cogwheels. On one of the flowers was a tiny bee suspended from an invisible wire that bounced it between the two flowers.

  My left shoulder was bare, and instead of gloves I wore strips of fabric—shiny copper, glittering gold, and sleek black—in a complicated weave that enclosed my hand, wrist, and arm but left my fingers bare. Small cogs covered with black glitter marched up the length of the sleevelike glove.

  My right arm, partially covered by the fabric falling from where it was gathered at my shoulder, was bare except for a short version of the same glove-sleeve that ended just past my wrist.

  Madame Trouxeau had bundled up my thick, dark curls onto the very top of my head, where they sprang like a fountain from their moorings: up and then down over my shoulders. She’d woven glittering strands of gold and copper braid into the curls along with tiny matching flowers.

  Over my bare shoulder I’d slung a small quiver of black leather trimmed in bronze. The four arrows inside weren’t long enough to hurt anyone, but they certainly looked pretty: curling copper feathers tipped the shiny black stems. I also carried a small matching bow with cogwheels that were used to stretched the string at each end.

  But the best part of the costume was my mask, which was fashioned in the shape of a sort of elegant helmet that fit around the fountain of my hair. The bronze piece covered my eyes and nose, and then curved down over the sides of my face all the way to edge of my jaw. Only my mouth and the bottom portion of my ears were visible.

  “It’s impossible to recognize you. The fact that you were a female warrior was all what suggested your identity,” Miss Adler said.

  “Thank you. It’s far easier to move about in than Marie’s impossible skirts. But I’m sorry, Miss Adler, I don’t recognize your costume.”

  “Annie Oakley,” she said with a smile from behind her elaborate crimson and white mask. “Also known as Little Sure Shot. Perhaps you heard about her when she visited the queen with the Buffalo Bill Show.”

  Oh, yes, then I could see it. She wore a white dress with a bodice fashioned of ivory buckskin. The skirts, full and frothy, ended well above the floor, but still provided some modest coverage for her legs, which were encased in gorgeous crimson boots. Their heels were slender, curvy legs of gleaming black wood, and a collection of white and black tassels spilled from the laces that ran up the fronts of them. The boots themselves were shiny as a mirror, and I immediately coveted them.

  Silvery fringe fell glittering from her elbow-length red gloves and from around her neckline, which cut low and straight across the front and back, from shoulder to shoulder. I suspected Annie Oakley had never worn such a deep décolletage during any of her shows, but the look was very becoming to Miss Adler and was perfect for an evening ball.

  On her head perched a silver hat that was in the style of American cowboys, I think they’re called, with a sassy brim that curled up on the sides. It was trimmed with red bric-a-brac and topped with a trio of airy red feathers. Her dark hair was gathered into a loose tail at the back, falling from behind the hat. A red mask hid the top of her face from a hint of scarlet lips to above her brows. She held a rifle in her hand, and I wondered whether it was loaded.

  Surely not.

  But then again, this was Miss Adler.

  “Have you spoken to Mina?” she asked very quietly.

  “Not since yesterday. She intends to be here tonight,” I replied. “I believe she is dressing as Sekhmet. Is something wrong?”

  “It’s only that Dylan seems to have disappeared. I thought perhaps she might have been in touch with him. I’ve been rather distracted with…complications.”

  “What sort of complications?” There was something in the tone of her voice that had me coming to attention. The seriousness was matched by the expression in her eyes.

  She hesitated, then shook her head. “Now is not the time. Tomorrow, when we can speak freely. I believe it’s time you and Mina and I had a forthright conversation.”

  Of course, that only made me want to press her further. But before I could do so, Miss Adler slipped off into the party, using her rifle to part the crowd.

  This left me alone, which was fine with me. I stood there for a moment, noticing the array of costumes: a sparkling butterfly with long, flowing sleeves and a complicated hat with antennae curving from it, a Robin Hood toting a much larger bow than mine, a Queen Victoria (there’s always at least one), and a Romeo and Juliet who’d found each other either by accident or by design.

  There was a Knave of Hearts, and I believe it was Mrs. Bennington who’d chosen to dress as a daisy (I could only guess it was her because she’s remarkably short, and her daughter is remarkably tall). I saw a variety of other characters that I couldn’t identify.

  Through the crush, I spotted a towering pink and white wig studded with birds, bees, and stars. Apparently Mrs. Glimmerston had found someone else willing to wear my costume.

  And from the size of the crowd of costumed partygoers clustering around Marie Antoinette, it appeared that no one realized it wasn’t me. I was elated when I saw that one of them was even Florence, who was dressed as a sparkling snowflake (she’d insisted Bram dress as rain—he’d wanted to come as Count Dracula from his book—and I was rather interested to see how that had come out).

  Florence was speaking energetically to a man standing next to her that, from the back, I was almost certain was my fiancée. I couldn’t quite make out what his costume was, but whatever he’d chosen to wear, it was shiny and complicated. And there was a sort of crown on his head, so he was probably a prince or a king.

  When I caught sight of a slender, snakelike ornament at head height moving through the crowd, I stood on my tiptoes to see better. It had to be Mina in her Sekhmet costume, but I couldn’t tell for certain, for most of the other guests were taller than me.

  I began to weave my way between the chatting partygoers in order to catch up with her.

  But just then, the orchestra began to play its first song, and all at once I was caught up in a crush of people selecting their partners and moving en masse to the dance floor.

  Unlike other balls, there was no need for dance cards at a masquerade, since everyone was supposed to be anonymous. That was how I ended up being led to the dance floor by a gentleman who had dressed as an American cowboy. He was wearing a hat similar to that of Miss Adler, which was surely only coincidence, because he was not the type of gentleman that would appeal to her.

  He was off-beat for the entire waltz, and propelled me into another dancer two different times during the number. At last it was over and I was able to extricate myself from the cowboy.

  Besides, I had seen the tables of food and realized how hungry I was. I also wanted to find Mina and tell her what Miss Adler had said.

  I brushed past the crowd that was still clamoring around Marie Antoinette, who app
eared to be lapping up the attention. Whether she was purposely pretending to be me (rather unlikely; for what purpose?) or simply unaware of the misunderstanding, I didn’t know.

  But from the way Florence was watching over the crowd, I could tell she at least had realized it…and she was in search of the guest of honor.

  I smiled to myself, knowing it was extremely unlikely she or anyone else would recognize me unless we came face to face. I could visit the food table and eat whatever I wanted without having to talk to anyone or without anyone criticizing me over my appetite. It felt wonderful, being so anonymous.

  Florence, likely with the monetary help of the Oligarys, had outdone herself with the food. I wanted to drool at the array of edibles arranged on a long, curving table, as well as the items on platters being offered by strolling servers.

  I had my eye on a footman dressed in midnight blue. He carried a large silver tray laden with bite-sized spoons filled with some delicious-looking custard. The spoon handles were curved back and under so as to keep them upright. As I pushed through the crowd and got closer, I realized the spoons themselves were pastries, glazed with some silvery topping to make them appear real.

  They were filled with custard. Topped with tiny sprinkles.

  I was nearly in reach when someone bumped into me from behind, hard enough to send me stumbling. I knocked into a cluster of people next to me as I turned to see who’d pushed me, and this set my mask askew. Someone steadied me, taking me firmly by the hand, and it took a few moments for me to adjust my mask and regain my bearings.

  By that time, the footman with the pastry spoons had disappeared into the depths of the ball. Blast it!

  Then I noticed I’d emerged from the crowd near a fountain of pale blue champagne. It was bubbling gently from a graceful mermaid’s mouth. My annoyance eased as I accepted a tall, slender glass from the attending footman. If I couldn’t have champagne on my eighteenth birthday, when could I?