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  “I needed an exit, and you two seemed like you could handle yourselves.” He looked her over as if she were a prize side of beef hanging in a butcher’s window. “You’re still looking like a nice filly ready to ride.”

  “I was in hospital—an American hospital—for a week.” She shook her head. “Bloody chamber of horrors, that was!”

  “Good Lord, Eliza!” Wellington looked between the fallen American and her. “Are you looking to start another war between the Empire and the United States?”

  “We whipped your ass once before,” the American grumbled, now sitting up. “We can do it again.”

  “Says the man on the floor following one punch,” Eliza bit back.

  “I would prefer there be no more arse-whipping, if you please.” Wellington actually stood between them, and reminded her, “We are here as a professional courtesy.”

  “You’re here because our boss wanted to put on a dog-and-pony show for those Capitol Hill types,” the American cowboy retorted.

  “Oh for Pete’s sake, Bill,” Felicity chimed in, her sharp tone making all three of them start, “would you please shut up.”

  “She hit me first!” Bill protested like a child caught at playground hijinks.

  “You probably had it coming,” Felicity replied with a tilt of her head. Bill went to protest but the librarian held up a single finger. Apparently, that was enough to keep him quiet. “Mr. Books, Miss Braun, this is my partner, William Wheatley.”

  Eliza blinked. “William Wheatley? Wild Bill Wheatley? Is your partner?”

  He tipped his hat to her. “Nice to know my name gets around even in Her Majesty’s Empire.”

  “Can I hit him again, Welly?”

  “No!” Wellington snapped. “For goodness’ sake, what can you possibly have against Wheatley here?”

  It was going to be embarrassing to bring up, but she was forced to now. Eliza glared at the grinning American. “Wellington, I cannot begin to run down some of the diplomatic disasters this wanker has left behind for my previous partner, Harry, and I to clean up. Ontario. The Bahamas. Newfoundland. We could always tell when ‘Wild Bill’ had been in town. I mean, what kind of secret agent runs into an objective and chooses to blow it to kingdom come when leaving? Hardly secret operations.”

  “Yes,” Wellington said evenly. “Hardly.”

  Eliza held a gaze with her partner for a moment before returning it to the still-smiling cowboy. “But Harry and I officially ‘met’ Bill here when returning from an assignment in Hong Kong. We found ourselves making a stop in San Francisco for a few hours, so we popped into the pub closest to the aeroport for a celebratory drink.”

  “And that would be the Rum Runner?” Wellington asked.

  “Before we finished the first round,” she continued, “a group of ruffians surrounded our table and it is all this git’s fault.”

  “Yeah, not one of my best days with the Office,” William began. “My cover had been blown . . .”

  “Really?” Eliza interjected. “First time in the field with your ‘big boy’ guns, then?”

  Bill’s eyes darkened. “Look, that contact of mine had been a reliable one . . .”

  “Except for that one time,” Felicity sang softly.

  “I was outbid. Found myself in a bad situation. Those varmints knew I had a meeting at the Rum Runner. So once the fire got hot under the skillet I looked for people that could pass for associates.”

  Eliza was having none of his smooth talk. “So you chose the British gent, immaculate haircut, stylish bowler, and with his fair lady on one arm.”

  “Exactly.”

  Eliza remained flummoxed by his complete lack of logic. “I am going to hit him again!” she declared.

  The American threw his hands up. “I’m just going to stay down here then til you get over that!”

  “Eliza!” Wellington implored.

  “Honestly, your other tell was the dress you were wearing.” Bill ruffled his dark hair. “Now I’ve known me a fine lady or three, but none that wore skirts with folds like yours. The way the fabric was layered didn’t look right.”

  “The way the fabric was layered?” Wellington asked, blinking incredulously.

  Bill rested his arms on his knees and looked up to Wellington. “Partner, if’n you want to charm the ladies, it doesn’t hurt to know a thing or two about the latest fashion and what the phillies are wearin’.”

  Eliza pursed her lips. “So you knew I had access to a pair of garter pistols? Really, you expect me to believe that?”

  “You didn’t look like no dockside whore, so I took an educated guess.” He then looked around at everyone from where he sat. “So, can I get up now?”

  “Of course,” Wellington said, reaching down to him.

  The man bent down to pick up his hat, keeping his own intent stare on Eliza as he dusted it off.

  “Partnered with ‘Wild Bill’ Wheatley.” She sniffed, returning his gaze. “Thank God my corset’s been reinforced.”

  “Sounds like you got a problem with the American way of doing things,” Bill snapped. “I do what I do, and get results. I’m thorough.”

  “Is that what you call it? Thorough?” Eliza began, planting her hands on her hips, knowing full well she was perilously close to looking like a fishwife.

  “I hate to interrupt this—I believe you would call it in the Americas—Mexican standoff, but if I recall, Miss Lovelace was about to brief us on why we have been called here.” Wellington gave a nod to Bill. “Mr. Pot.” He then turned to Eliza. “Miss Kettle. Follow me, if you please?”

  “Your partner there,” the American spoke right by her ear, “he’s not quite right, is he?”

  Eliza answered, but kept her eyes on Wellington. “In many ways, but he grows on you.”

  “Nice punch there, Braun,” the American mumbled.

  “Thank you,” she said, dropping him a little curtsey. “I have been working on it since San Francisco.”

  He shot her a rueful glance and then swept a quite passable bow. “Then shall we join our partners, before they get restless?”

  “Yes, let’s.” She led the way to the table, where they both took seats with far less tension than on their initial meeting. The barkeep had already refreshed their drinks and even included a freshly pulled beer for Bill. Felicity was casting her eyes wildly from bartender to patron as her fingers nervously tapped a large envelope.

  “Felicity, come on now, these boys don’t really care about our business. Unless we got leads to a fishing spot or a sunken ironclad, we are just having drinks and looking at a map of the beach.” Bill took up the beer and winked. “I know this place.”

  “As well as you knew that contact in San Francisco?” Felicity asked, her eyebrow arching slightly. Bill paused just as his beer was about to reach his lips, but she merely shrugged. “It’s worth asking.”

  “Just educate them, darlin’,” he replied, before taking a long sip, “’cause that is what you do.”

  Felicity pursed her lips for a moment before opening the envelope. She spread out a map of the United States’ eastern seaboard before them, and tapped upon the state directly underneath Virginia. “Just south of us is a small strip of land connected to North Carolina that is comprised of several townships—Currituck, Nags Head, Kitty Hawk, Hatteras, Ocracoke, and so on. Collectively, this area is referred to as the Outer Banks.”

  “And if memory serves, this area,” Wellington said, running his fingers along a stretch of ocean off the North Carolina coast, “carries the charming moniker of Graveyard of the Atlantic. Well over five hundred wrecks within these waters, yes?”

  She looked up from the map in surprise. “You know about the Outer Banks?”

  “I know that rather treacherous currents and particularly shallow sandbars have given this stretch of the Atlantic a rather dubious reputati
on.” Wellington tilted his head. “I also carefully read your rather thorough case summary.”

  “You thought it was thorough?” Felicity asked, her cheeks reddening the longer she considered Wellington. “I did spend quite a bit of time on it.” Clearing her throat, she produced from an envelope a section of transparent cellulose with a variety of markings on it. A continuous line matched the jagged coastline of Virginia, North Carolina, and South Carolina. The overlay now displayed a variety of small boat-shaped marks dotting the area Wellington had indicated as the Graveyard of the Atlantic. “These are known shipwrecks of the past twenty years. Green signifies wrecks from 1875 to 1890. The yellow are markers from ’90 to ’95.” Felicity overlaid another piece of film over the first. “This is the activity grabbing our attention.”

  These red marks were hardly the same number as the green and blue. What did intrigue Eliza was this concentration of shipwrecks seemed focused along three inland markers.

  “Miss Lovelace, are these markers,” Wellington said, following them along the coast with a single finger, “Cape Henry, Currituck, and Bodie Island?”

  “Yes, all these lighthouses have recently passed inspection so we know they are in full working order.”

  “So how many years of shipwrecks are we looking at here, Felicity?” Eliza asked, passing a hand over the collection of red markers. “The past year? Past two years?”

  “Not shipwrecks. Disappearances.” Felicity swallowed. “Just in the past month.”

  “It gets worse,” Bill replied. “Look closer at the markers.”

  Eliza and Wellington leaned in and noticed that of the twenty markers, five of them were marked as circles, not boats.

  “Airships,” Felicity spoke, her tone grim. “That began happening two weeks ago.”

  Wellington’s fingertips traced the line of red markers. “You’re saying these vessels have all disappeared?”

  “If’n these ships did wreck, nothing—I mean nothing—ever made it to shore.” All eyes turned to Bill. “No corpses. No wreckage. It’s as if the Atlantic just opened up and swallowed ’em whole.”

  “Have you taken a closer look down there?” Eliza offered.

  “With what?” Bill scoffed. “One of them fancy submarine things?”

  Wellington’s brow furrowed. “You mean, your organisation does not have access to one?”

  Felicity and Bill cast a glance at each other.

  “I’m just gonna sit here and drink my beer,” he grumbled.

  “There are plenty of warning indicators along our coast, and the reputation of the Graveyard is secondhand knowledge to ship captains,” Felicity assured them both. “But why airships are disappearing we cannot make heads or tails of.”

  Eliza followed the line of recent calamities, her index and pinkie finger measuring the distance between the two of them. “This looks to be about an area of roughly seventy miles. From this area of Virginia stretching to”—Eliza leaned in and read—“Kill Devil Hills. What a charming name!”

  “While waiting for you two, Felicity and I have been watching the area like hawks on the hunt. So far, nothin’ but boats and ships comin’ in and out like clockwork. No missed schedules.”

  Felicity gave a nod as she folded up the map and placed it along with her overlays back into their envelope. “Bill’s plan was to start here and follow the trail of disappearances.”

  “Just a moment,” Eliza spoke up, her brow furrowing, “this seems like a simple matter of investigation. You’re calling on us for experience? What sort of experience do you need?”

  “Told you we didn’t need ’em,” Bill said, finishing off what little remained of his beer.

  “Well, yes, this is a matter of investigation, but my own concern is that we lack experience concerning æthergate travel. That technology from Atlantis that you all commandeered from a nefarious organisation called the House of Usher could be behind these disappearances.” Even in light of Wellington’s reaction, Felicity shrugged. “Then there is the matter of the Janus Affair.”

  Eliza cocked her head to one side. “The what?”

  “That is how we refer to your most recent case,” Felicity said with a perky smile. “The Janus Affair.”

  “A bit melodramatic, don’t you think?” Wellington said with a groan. “Typical Americans.”

  “Look, I know we’re all good friends now,” Bill said, giving Eliza a wink just before continuing. “That don’t mean we trust you all blindly. We’re both in the business of keeping tabs on each other. Best to keep an eye on and an ear out for what your good friends are up to, right?”

  “I would agree,” Wellington said, his colour seeming to return as he fixed his eyes on Felicity, “but I would imagine your own experience—was it, six years ago? Yes, I do believe it was six—with the Dudleytown Experiment would have prepped you for this most admirably.”

  Eliza felt a surge of pride in her partner. The Dudleytown incident had been big news, even in the Ministry, and quite the mess for OSM. Wellington mentioning it was a nice way to take down their American counterparts a peg or two.

  Wellington had apparently decided two pegs wasn’t enough. “But perhaps lacking any comprehension of transdimensional technology matters little to your office, but it did cost your government, what, an insignificant Connecticut hamlet, yes?”

  Bill leaned forwards, his eyes seeming to be on fire. “You watch yourself, Johnny Shakespeare. Dudleytown was my case.”

  “Why not see if we can fold space and time with the peculiar rock composition of the area? So what if it drives a few people mad?”

  Bill was abruptly on his feet. “How about you and I go outside and discuss the laws of science, just the two of us.”

  “I sincerely hope we’re just getting all the posturing out of the way early,” Felicity chimed in, “so that we could make some progress before another sea or air vessel disappears?”

  Wellington turned to the librarian and gave her a delightful smile. “Yes,” he said, raising his glass of wine, “but I would prefer to pick the next meeting place, as this wine is hardly what I would call . . .” He paused, considering the glass, and then said, “. . . wine.”

  Bill grunted and slowly lowered himself back into his chair.

  “Let’s get back to the reason we reached out to the Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences.” Felicity looked around at them all, as if with her smile she’d mend everything. “Apart from Bill’s Dudleytown experience, we know very little of the mechanics behind transdimensional teleportation.”

  Eliza caught Wellington’s glance, but she spread her hands wide; she had no idea how much to share with them. “Right then—what is our next move?”

  “We have accommodations waiting for us at Swan’s Retreat. It’s an exclusive hunt club in Currituck County, North Carolina. We’ll be posing as an American couple,” Felicity said, motioning to herself and Bill, “showing friends from England the local duck-hunting grounds.”

  “You know how to shoot at all, pard’ner?” Bill asked.

  “Yes,” Eliza said with a smirk, “he does.” Wellington tugged at his collar, his gaze not meeting hers. “But something tells me he will probably not partake of the game North Carolina offers.”

  Bill nodded as if he’d expected it. “That’s too bad.” He turned to Eliza. “What about you, Lizzie? You know your way around a gun?”

  Eliza crooked an eyebrow at the smirk on Bill’s face, but managed to control the desire to wipe it off violently. “Looks like you’ve already made up your mind about that,” she replied sweetly.

  “Your firearms expertise is irrelevant, Eliza,” Felicity said dismissively. “Women are allowed at the hunt clubs as guests of their spouses, but not allowed to shoot, ride, or partake of—”

  “We will just have to state the obvious at Swan’s Retreat,” Eliza interjected. “I’m not from around these parts.
”

  “Oh, I think we’re going to have a grand ol’ time in Carolina,” Bill said, giving a satisfied sigh.

  “Well then,” Wellington said. “Let us gather your belongings. Our chariot is outside.”

  “Got everything I need on my horse so I’ll just meet you all there.” Bill motioned to Felicity. “My partner, on the other hand . . .”

  “It’s just a few things,” she protested.

  “Like the kitchen sink,” he retorted, counting off on his fingers, “the bedroom vanity, the ballroom chandelier . . .” He paused. “Am I missing anything?”

  Eliza looked between Felicity and Wellington. And Welly had dared to call her and Wild Bill “pot” and “kettle”?

  “A glimpse of things to come, Mr. Books,” Eliza whispered pointedly to her partner. “I would wager you’ll be requesting a recall to London before the week is out.”

  INTERLUDE

  Wherein the House of Usher Calls upon Divine Providence

  Van’s words echoed around her church, even as she closed the door behind her parishioners.

  “Life is short and we do not have too much time to gladden the hearts of those who travel the way with us. So be swift to love; make haste to be kind. Swifter still to forgive,” she had said to her flock only seconds ago. “And may the blessing of the one who made us, who loves us and who walks the way with us still; the one, holy and undivided Trinity be with us this day and remain with us always. Amen.”

  As she leant against the doors, she wondered if anyone had heard those deeply meant words. She kept repeating them in the hope that someone would. If just one took her words to heart, to practise the Gospel she imparted, that would make everything worthwhile.

  This was, as she called it, the chance for everyone to get a better look at the one and only female missionary daring to start a church in this area of Virginia. It was one thing to be a servant of God, but women were not supposed to be preaching in churches. At least, that was the general consensus.