Free The Black Rose by James Bartholomeusz

surprising. By the time Jack had finished flaking off soot, the air of the factory and the entire city had seemed to crawl under his skin again. He looked forward to a proper shower aboard
The Golden Turtle.
    The corn-yellow moon swooped between chimneys as they approached the Osborne Manor. All the lights appeared to be off and all the curtains drawn.
    Ruth led them down a driveway to the left and, withdrawing a thick ring of keys from her belt, unshackled the cast-iron gates. They slipped inside, careful not to let the metal clang, and made their way across the darkened courtyard to the interior door. Ruth repeated the action with a different key, and they were in the house.
    Jack peered into the gloom as the door was closed behind him. They were in a servant’s utility or laundry room, with folded piles of clothes loaded on shelves around them.
    Ruth crept into the next room, and they followed in single file: through the kitchen with its monstrous stone that reminded Jack of the orphanage back on Earth, up spiral steps in the opposite corner of the dining room, past a colossal wooden table to the main hallway. The front door was directly opposite them at the end of a long Oriental rug. Flickering light shimmered through a curtained window, falling on the banisters of the main staircase.
    They reached the top, and Ruth was about to set foot on the carpet, but Sardâr held her back. Silently, and without leaving the stairs, he crouched and examined the floor. He muttered a few syllables and passed his hand a few inches above the weaving. A projection of the floor, carpet threads cast in indigo light, rose from its real counterpart and vanished into the air.
    â€œAlchemical alarm now disabled,” Sardâr whispered, straightening and proceeding. They came to the first door on the left and the elf pressed his palm to it, light flashing and receding, to unlock it.
    Ruth eased it open, and they entered.
    Sardâr raised his arms, and the lamps flickered to life. The drawing room was exactly as Ruth had left it: icicles clinging to the plastered ceiling and hanging off the overstuffed furniture, frost clasping the wallpaper and curtains.
    Even under his overcoat, Jack shivered. “Why is it so cold in here?” It was then that he saw what Ruth had described.
    Behind the desk, where a portrait might have hung, a slab of ice the size of a fridge was set into the wall. Encased in it, apparently completely frozen, was a girl in what, inexplicably, appeared to be hiking wear.
    â€œShe’s an elf,” he whispered, noticing the pointed ears and Middle Eastern complexion. “Is she alive?”
    â€œI think so,” Sardâr replied, examining the frosty surface. “Otherwise there would be no point keeping her frozen. But we can deal with her in a minute. First, we should find what the Cult is up to.”
    Sardâr made his way to the desk and thumbed through the papers. Ruth joined him, indicating where she’d already looked and pointing out the locked drawers. Jack and Bál hung back, checking the door every few seconds with paranoid glances.
    Sardâr beckoned them with a hiss. Jack and Bál almost stumbled over a footstool in their haste to get around the desk. The three others leaned in to see. The elf was holding up what seemed to be blueprints of a machine that reminded Jack of something from an H. G. Wells novel: a large sphere suspended above the ground by thin legs, extruding various spindly limbs—a kind of futuristic hunter spider. The only writing was a monogram printed in the corner.
    â€œWhat does FGM stand for?”
    â€œFrederick Goodwin Manufacturing,” a voice answered from the doorway.
    The four intruders looked up in shock.
    Standing at the door, covered in a flowery nightgown and clasping a candelabra, was a middle-aged woman. Her hawkish eyes were fixed on them not with surprise but with something a little too close to hatred.
    â€œMilady!” Ruth