the bridle across his shoulder, he stepped back onto the path in the direction of the Hall.
All of this without a word.
At night, he runs with wild horses.
She stood in the moonlight and watched him go.
Wharcombe Steam Press
The body of local fishmonger Reggie Fretts was found off the shores of the bay this morning. He was shot once with a bullet to the head. This is the second tragedy to strike the fishmonger’s family, the first being the sudden death of his oldest son Charlie earlier this week. Upon interview, Mrs. Bernadette “Dottie” Fretts made mention that her husband was a terrible drunk and had gotten himself in low with the bookies. She has recently come into some money and made plans to leave Wharcombe with her four surviving children and move back to Surrey for a better life with her sister.
Police are now listing the Wharcombe/Milnethorpe bookmakers as prime suspects in this case and are continuing to investigate.
Chapter 7
Of Datamancery, Necroscopy, and a Clockwork Man
COOKIE HAD SET out an early breakfast but her brother had elected to stay behind at the Hall—helping Lottie with some of the cleaning machines, he had insisted. It didn’t surprise her. He put on a good show of pretending his mother’s state mattered little to him. She knew that deep in his heart he cared, but still, it was up to Ivy once again, taking their mum on the road to Lonsdale.
And so for a little over two hours, the coach rolled along the dirt roadways of Lancashire. She had seen only one steamcar so far and that of the four-wheeled variety. A blonde woman was at the helm, great goggles covering her eyes and a long paisley scarf flowing in the wind. Ivy could hear Castlewaite cursing from the dickey above, and the horses snorted and reared as it roared past. While they were a common sight in London, they were fairly new contraptions. Built upon the same steam-powered principles as a locomotive, they were modern but noisy and their movements stilted and jerky. Ivy thought they would need considerable improvements for people to abandon their coaches in favour of them.
She did not see a single airship in the sky. She did, however, see many sheep.
So, it was with such strange, trivial, and unrelated thoughts running through her mind that she barely noticed Lonsdale Abbey come into view, perched like a tower over a stretch of grey water.
She sat forward, pressed her nose against the glass.
The Abbey sat on the hills above Wharcombe Bay. She loved the smell of the ocean. It always made her spirit leap with the promise of adventure. The Thames was not the same. The Thames smelled like rubbish. The Thames smelled like ashes and oil and the hulls of large ships. There was no promise of adventure in the Thames.
She threw a glance at her mother, head bobbing in time with the horses. Cookie had exchanged her bonnet for a cream mob, although her dress was still deepest black. No matter what anyone did, she still looked dead.
Ivy felt her throat tighten, so she looked back out the window as finally the carriage rattled to a halt at a wrought-iron gate. There was no gateman. There was, however, an impressive set of gears set in a rusted archway over their heads. She watched as Castlewaite climbed down from the dickey to punch in a sequence of numbers on an antiquated set of hex-nut keys. She could hear the punch and click as each number was entered, and she marvelled at how a simple coachman could possibly know the code for such a place.
Suddenly, there was a shudder as the mechanism sprang to life. The articulating gears groaned overhead, and wheels inside the gate lintel began to spin. Slowly, the wrought iron moved, swinging open to allow the carriage passage. Castlewaite urged the horses through and Ivy watched through the window as the wide black gate swung closed behind them.
Datamancery, she thought. What a remarkable science.
The grounds were vast enough to boast a small farm,
All of this without a word.
At night, he runs with wild horses.
She stood in the moonlight and watched him go.
Wharcombe Steam Press
The body of local fishmonger Reggie Fretts was found off the shores of the bay this morning. He was shot once with a bullet to the head. This is the second tragedy to strike the fishmonger’s family, the first being the sudden death of his oldest son Charlie earlier this week. Upon interview, Mrs. Bernadette “Dottie” Fretts made mention that her husband was a terrible drunk and had gotten himself in low with the bookies. She has recently come into some money and made plans to leave Wharcombe with her four surviving children and move back to Surrey for a better life with her sister.
Police are now listing the Wharcombe/Milnethorpe bookmakers as prime suspects in this case and are continuing to investigate.
Chapter 7
Of Datamancery, Necroscopy, and a Clockwork Man
COOKIE HAD SET out an early breakfast but her brother had elected to stay behind at the Hall—helping Lottie with some of the cleaning machines, he had insisted. It didn’t surprise her. He put on a good show of pretending his mother’s state mattered little to him. She knew that deep in his heart he cared, but still, it was up to Ivy once again, taking their mum on the road to Lonsdale.
And so for a little over two hours, the coach rolled along the dirt roadways of Lancashire. She had seen only one steamcar so far and that of the four-wheeled variety. A blonde woman was at the helm, great goggles covering her eyes and a long paisley scarf flowing in the wind. Ivy could hear Castlewaite cursing from the dickey above, and the horses snorted and reared as it roared past. While they were a common sight in London, they were fairly new contraptions. Built upon the same steam-powered principles as a locomotive, they were modern but noisy and their movements stilted and jerky. Ivy thought they would need considerable improvements for people to abandon their coaches in favour of them.
She did not see a single airship in the sky. She did, however, see many sheep.
So, it was with such strange, trivial, and unrelated thoughts running through her mind that she barely noticed Lonsdale Abbey come into view, perched like a tower over a stretch of grey water.
She sat forward, pressed her nose against the glass.
The Abbey sat on the hills above Wharcombe Bay. She loved the smell of the ocean. It always made her spirit leap with the promise of adventure. The Thames was not the same. The Thames smelled like rubbish. The Thames smelled like ashes and oil and the hulls of large ships. There was no promise of adventure in the Thames.
She threw a glance at her mother, head bobbing in time with the horses. Cookie had exchanged her bonnet for a cream mob, although her dress was still deepest black. No matter what anyone did, she still looked dead.
Ivy felt her throat tighten, so she looked back out the window as finally the carriage rattled to a halt at a wrought-iron gate. There was no gateman. There was, however, an impressive set of gears set in a rusted archway over their heads. She watched as Castlewaite climbed down from the dickey to punch in a sequence of numbers on an antiquated set of hex-nut keys. She could hear the punch and click as each number was entered, and she marvelled at how a simple coachman could possibly know the code for such a place.
Suddenly, there was a shudder as the mechanism sprang to life. The articulating gears groaned overhead, and wheels inside the gate lintel began to spin. Slowly, the wrought iron moved, swinging open to allow the carriage passage. Castlewaite urged the horses through and Ivy watched through the window as the wide black gate swung closed behind them.
Datamancery, she thought. What a remarkable science.
The grounds were vast enough to boast a small farm,
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