NaNo Stuff and New Plot

Hello all, just adding a bit of an update. This particular part of the story wont happen in the storyline until much later, but it is the nature of this story to be read in small parts and pieced together after-the-fact. If you really don’t want to be spoiled, you can always wait for the in-order releases on our fictionpress page.

In this episode we introduced the idea of Papal Assassins and expanded the geography a bit as well as made a mention to the less pleasant homonculi that exist in other parts of the world. Overall, the ToS project is picking up some steam and we hope to have it pick up even more during November. Although we wont be devoting our entire 50K worth of words to just ToS, we will be making it a point to write ToS quite often. We’ll be individually keeping track of our own work on our personal blogs, but as a matter of interest, we’ll keep track of our combined ToS wordcount during NaNo too.

Please keep reading and commenting!

Toxicity of Susan – The Letter

An Episodic Co-Write with IAmGabe and  Sabraeal

---

The light rain pattered softly on the thin window panes. Tiny rivers of water, acid, and ash flowed down into the street through a lattice of brickwork and masonry. Edward Lamport looked out into the cold, uncaring London twilight. In his hand he held a letter signed by the Pope himself. Uncharacteristically, he hadn’t even finished reading it. He didn’t need to. He glanced towards Rosalind.

She sat motionless in her chair in the corner. Just beneath the lull of the rain, there was the faint sound of her clockwork pieces humming. In her hand was a drama by Edward’s favorite playwright held at what would be a comfortable length for a human of her size. Of course, Rosalind couldn’t read−yet−but Edward found it was useful to keep the other professors guessing and a deeper part of him couldn’t simply relegate her to simply idle in her corner all day.

He paced fretfully behind his desk. Rosalind’s eyes stayed fixed on her literature. Of course, there had always been talk of this day. It was his not-so-secret fear and the other professors spoke in hushed tones about such things when the odd Bishop would come by to visit the university.

The Church barely accepted homonculi as they were. The first homonculi were monstrous farming implements; barely more than tools. They were wooden and clay hulks with wheels, spindly legs, and farming implements jutting from their stark figures. Essentially tireless oxen, the first homonculi were clockwork beasts given only the slightest direction by earthy farmers’ magic.

As a matter of taste and preference, homonculi were brought into households in the shape of humans. They made excellent butlers and maids, but their silent disposition and tendency to lurch made that line of occupation short-lived for most of their kind. They did, however, find a great niche in the mills and chemical plants; much to the ire of the lower class who resented their replacement in the most dangerous but highest paying jobs.

Despite their hardships, they seemed to endure as a stoic people; living in the shadows and garnering little attention from those who did not work directly with them. Attacks on homonculi were rare, and in most cases the brain could be reclaimed and put into a new chassis at the assailant’s cost.

Of course, Edward reminded himself, they were not alive. They were not people and couldn’t possibly be stoic, by any means. Heretical research was only safe this far North of Rome if no one actually noticed you. Edward had obviously drawn the attention of more than a few pairs of eyes.

Edward sat down at his desk in a huff and sipped his cold tea. He cursed under his breath.  Rosalind turned the page.

---

“Antarctica?” Susan gasped.

“I know, Miss Susan,” Edward replied hastily as he stuffed hooked knives from his workshop into a leather bag. “It does seem a bit sudden, but I am, at heart, an artist. And an artist must follow his muse.”

Klaus stood nearby, dumbfounded. He meekly stepped out of Rosalind’s way as she piled boxes by the door.

“And my muse is telling me to go to Antarctica,” Edward added quickly.

“I gathered as much,” Susan said, still shocked.

“And there’s no talking me out of it,” he said with a manic smile. “I’ve chartered the ship already. We set sail at the first tide tomorrow morning!”

“T-that’s great!” Klaus said. His face was a mix of emotions.

Edward closed the handbag and looked through Klaus.

“That’s right! I’d nearly forgotten. Bruno!” he called towards the dark warehouse. A lumbering homonculus walked through the doorway. He crouched to get through.

“Bruno,” Edward continued. “Get our dear friend Klaus his shipment for today and when you’re done please rouse Su and tell her to get her belongings collected.”

The hulk nodded and returned to the warehouse. Within moments it returned with a small box and disappeared up the stairs with soft thuds at each step.

“Why are you truly leaving, my friend?” Klaus said, at once.

Edward bustled to the other side of the workshop and grabbed a jar marked spare brain. He paused.

“It’s the Church,” he said softly. “You know how they feel about my research. I’ve been able to avoid their attention so far, but it was not meant to last.”

Klaus nodded.

“My brother,” Edward continued, “he’s excavating ruins deep under the ice shelf. He’ll surely take me in and it will be a good place to relocate my research.”

“And you’re moving your whole lab there?” Susan asked cautiously at the previous mention of Su.

“Don’t be silly,” Edward snapped as he rushed to the main door. “All the most important pieces are being moved to the docks as we speak. The rest will be put in storage back on my family’s grounds.”

“And that includes Su?” Susan pressed.

“Ah Su,” Edward said, turning towards the stairs.

He walked up and hugged the rigid homonculus. It was dressed in a French Maid’s outfit beneath a thick overcoat. It carried a large briefcase in one hand, which did not seem to weigh the load-bearing shoulder at all.

Susan opened her mouth to begin her protest.

“Miss Susan,” Edward insisted, “I am leaving Su under your care. She’s fully trained now and I am sure she can be of use to both yourself and Klaus.”

Susan’s mouth was agape. She was dreading this.

“And no need to worry about Bruno,” Edward continued, “He’ll be accompanying the laboratory contents back to the manor.”

Klaus blushed slightly as the homonculus approached him, walking evenly and looking him in the eyes, stopping several feet in front of him. Susan snapped back to her senses.

“Couldn’t you dress her in something more dignified?!” she shouted.

“Unfortunately, that was all we had on such short notice,” Edward barked from the front door. He was directing mysterious nighttime movers who had appeared from the fog and were now moving the pile from inside the door to a kart in the street.

Susan approached the panicked man softly.

“Are you sure they wont try anything?” she asked.

“My dear,” Edward snapped, flustered as ever, “I believe if they meant to kill me, I would not have received a letter before the incident. I’m sure you of all people have heard the stories of the Papal Assassins.”

She nodded too.

“Nevertheless, I do not wish to tempt fate.” he said, grandiosely.

The taller of the two movers carried the last box out the front door. Edward sighed.

“And now, I must ask that the three of you leave. I must lock up and head to the docks.”

Edward gave Klaus a heartfelt hug and Susan a firm handshake. Then the scientist escorted Rosalind into the carriage and disappeared into the fog.

Klaus’ eyes misted. Susan stood quietly. Su undulated.

---

Archibald didn’t remember much of his childhood. He never met his father or his mother. He spent his early years living with his maternal grandmother in a small village by the sea. What he did remember from those young years were the eyes.

Thousands and thousands of dead, glass eyes. They watched him as he drifted off to sleep. They watched him as he turned in uneasy slumber beneath their baleful gaze. When he awoke in the gray hours, he heard faint sniggering as the legion of dolls that covered the walls stared down at him.

But that was a long time ago. The men from the monastery came and taught him to read and write. He was trained with orphans and other near-orphans. They learned the ways of war and how to use them for God’s glory. They were taught of the brave inquisitors and the vile heretics.

Through the years, his classmates fell at the hands of heretics, but Archibald always survived. He had that lean, wiry strength that always afforded enough of a surprise in an altercation to tip the scales in his favor. A well placed dagger never hurt his position either. And Archibald was very good with daggers.

As the decades ground by, scant few of his brothers remained. But Archibald had prayed over the bodies of many heretics. He begged God to forgive them for their follies and never truly blamed them for their shortcomings. He believed that in other circumstances he may have been able to convince the heretics to give up their sinful ways through words rather than violence. But most, the realist inside him admitted, would probably not give him a chance.

It was with a heavy heart that Archibald took up his cloak and daggers on a foggy London morning. The Pope implored him to purify one last heretic. Archibald’s knees had long since begun to creak and he had often expressed his desire to retire to become a peaceful monk in a high mountain monastery. It was not that his piety had decreased. Far from it! But Archibald knew that no man could last forever. His greatest fear was that in his old age, he might fail and let a heretic live. He feared this with all his might because he saw no point in serving if he could not serve fully.

He walked down the still gray streets towards the docks. It had not been difficult to arrange his position as the cook on the ship the heretic had chartered. A letter here, some salvation there; it was an easy task. In one and one half days, the cook had come down with a terrible illness, but his uncle Sebastian−who was also a very accomplished ship’s cook−was able to take his place at very short notice.

Sebastian smiled with his few remaining teeth as he boarded the ship. The salt air blew in his thinning gray hair. The crew was already hard at work. After a brief exchange with the first mate, he made his way to the mess hall. He sang hymns while he prepared the morning meal. The crew heartily ate their meal and thanked him for his expert cooking. A few of the less salty sea dogs remarked that they were not aware a ship’s cook could be that good. He smiled and thanked them graciously; assuring them they would have many more meals like it in the future.

The heretic did not show himself. When Sebastian delivered the meal to the Captain’s quarters, the Captain remarked that the heretic had locked himself inside his quarters with a few days’ supply of food and water and said that he was not going to come out until they were on the open sea; for fear of assassins. Sebastian expertly feigned concern.

Three days of gourmet meals later, the heretic emerged from his quarters with his clockwork monstrosity hanging by his coattails. The men were uneasy around the two of them, and for good reason. Sebas−Archibald’s resolve steeled again. His new plan was thus: after purifying the heretic, he would take a few days’ worth of food and water along with some navigation pieces and one of the longboats and land in France. From there he would travel to Rome and receive his reward for years of service. He would have to make it look like an accident, he realized. The heretic would be tossed overboard after his death; appearing to the crew to have fallen overboard. The kind old ship’s cook would go out to save the man, but would be lost at sea in the process. Perhaps they would return to England; perhaps not. At any rate, he would be well into the Prussian states by the time anyone suspected his hand.

It seemed like a good enough plan, and he accidentally cut himself while peeling potatoes that day. The last of Sebastian bled onto the kitchen floor. Archibald dreamt of the great Vatican.

---

Night fell softly as a calm breeze edged the the ship towards deeper waters. A gentle mist rose from the lulling waves. Archibald had already stashed his supplies in the longboat and had readied it for sea. Most of the crew were below deck and those above would not soon wake from the sizable dose of agent in Sebastian’s famous sailor’s cider.

He approached the heretic’s quarters and rapped softly on it, calling out for the delivery of the night’s meal. He heard a soft snore from the other side and tried the door. He chanted a hymn as he took out his lock picking kit. A few delicate turns later, the door to the heretic’s quarters creaked open in the rolling of the surf. Archibald quickly grabbed the door and stifled the creak, liberally applying bacon grease to the hinges and reprimanding himself for not remembering to do it before he opened the door. In many circumstances, that kind of oversight could lead a heretic to evade purification. Standing in the glum threshold, Archibald pined for his future days as a monk in a far away monastery, singing and gardening for the rest of his days.

he crept inward, closing the door behind him. He did not care to stifle his noise too much though. The heretic was badly seasick and had changed to a repulsive color of olive green. He had barely been able to keep down any of Sebastian’s famous sailor’s cider, but Archibald had no doubt that with the exhaustion of the past few days and the added push of his cider, that the heretic would−at the very least−be sufficiently groggy for purification.

As he crept into the den of diabolic sin, he nearly let out a cry. The age-old fear that had preyed upon him as a boy had returned once again. He stared at a bench on the inner side of the ship, and staring back at him were a dozen small eyes. These eyes were not so merciful as the ones in his grandmother’s house. They had no faces to hold them and no sockets to explain their wretched swiveling.

But no, it was only his imagination. It was a trick of the eyes played by their glassy stare, he was sure. Eyes without sockets could not move and eyes without anything behind them could not see. Of all the heretics he had purified in the past, he had only once seen a true demon, and it skittered away at the sight of him. These were not like that creature’s eyes at all. They were cold; material. He tried to get a hold of himself as his heart raced.

Behind him, the sound of tiny gears buzzing attracted his attention. He turned slowly and saw a doll, about the size of a girl. It was the monstrosity; the foul creature that followed the heretic when he dared to come above deck. But it was asleep now; at least it seemed to be. It did not move to follow his motion or react as he waved his arms in front of it. He thought for a moment that he perceived its eyes to follow him as he experimentally tracked across the room, but he knew it was another optical illusion.

Of course Archibald knew what homonculi were. Although the Church forbade their use in households, the farmers had long held them in high regard as tools in the field. Only occasionally had he heard of fouler homonculi from Africa or the South Americas; ones with swords and bones for arms and the heads of dead men. This was not like the farm tools or the normal sort of abomination. It was a well-built and carefully crafted abomination, beautiful like Lucifer and as deceitful in purpose.

He unsurely placed a small towel over it’s head. No matter the variety, homonculi were not smart and an obstacle obstructing their vision was usually more than enough to confound their simple magiks.

Archibald turned back to his target. The heretic lay in troubled sleep in his rocking bed. He drew his dagger and slowly moved towards the bed. The sound of gears caught his ear again. He whipped back to see the small doll with the towel over its head. He fancied in the darkness that he saw it freeze in place as he turned around, but he knew it could not be true.

He turned again to his target, his blackened dagger humming softly in his faltering grip. He raised his arm and prepared to deal the final blow. The purification of the heretic was within grasp. His rest could finally come. Then, he felt a tingle.

In his back, something seemed to have worked its way in. He flailed around to see what had stabbed him, but as he turned a sharp pain coursed through his chest. He fell lamely to the floor and gurgled for air, dragging himself back towards the bed. As he crawled, the pain came back in waves as more and more sharp pains danced up and down his back and neck. Then, Archibald died.

---

Edward awoke with a start a moment later. He thought he heard the wet cries of a man in pain in his room, but as he looked around, he saw no intruder. Then he noticed the towel half-removed towel from Rosalind’s head. The panels in her arms slowly moved back into place the the spring-loaded mechanisms within clicked and latched back to their taut readiness.

Then he peered over the side of the bed and gave out a yell. He saw the dead ship’s cook, clutching a blackened dagger, eyes wide and mad, dead in a pool of his own blood. His back was riddled with darts in rows and columns. He looked back at the small, cold homonculus and tried to put on a smile.

“T-thank you, Rosalind,” Edward said softly.

The small mechanical creature removed the towel from its head and returned to its at-ready position. It’s jaw opened slightly and its gears buzzed and whirred muffled from within its dress.

In a cold, tinny voice it said, “You are welcome.”

Toxicity of Susan – Adventures of the Illustrious Highwayman Part 1

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A nimble figure scaled the cool slate rooftops of London. The thick fog made him nothing more than a shadow moving against shadows. He stealthily skittered across the chilly skyline until at last he arrived at his quarry; the Ingram’s Estate. Tucked away in a deep corner of this mansion was what the shadow sought. Somewhere, buried deep inside under lock and key−most likely with armed guards too−was a magical tribal mask brought back by Tyler Ingram on his legendary expedition to the heathen lands of the South Americas. It was a perfect target for the Illustrious Highwayman.It had taken him weeks to prepare. He spent a small fortune bribing servants for information on when the guards change and ascertaining the layout of the estate. And after buying one guard a total of eight drinks−incognito, of course−he acquired the combination to the vault. At the very least he had a very drunken man’s recollection of what the combination could be.He began to wonder just how reliable the three numbers the man had slurred out would be. If the combination didn’t work, he would do it his way. He quietly positioned himself on the roof in front of one of the attic windows. He grabbed a small pouch on his waist and slowly brought it in front of him. He froze at the sound of a carriage ambling down the street on the other side of the house. Of course they couldn’t see him, but instinct made him freeze until the carriage was far enough away.

He carefully removed a small vial from his pouch and gave the window’s latch a healthy dose of nitric acid. He took out another vial and carefully oiled both the hinges. He replaced both vials, put the pouch back at his hip and slowly moved inside. The attic was dingy and moldy. Portraits of forgotten Ingrams lined the walls of the attic, leaning against the occasional joist. The Highwayman moved cautiously through the attic towards the center of the building where the chimney and, more importantly, the shaft for the dumb waiter lay. He ignored the eyes as they followed him. In his line of business, he had to know when someone was actually watching him and when it was his imagination. He placed his steps carefully, walking on top of where the rafters lay beneath the floorboards to prevent that awful creaking sound. A real thief has to know how to fool a house.

That’s what he was taught that thieves do; they fool houses, not the people inside. A house is like a living organism. It knows when visitors are welcome and it knows when they are not. A house may be loyal to its master or it may betray him. Some houses guard their treasures carefully; others guard their occupants. These things were the most important part of a heist. Getting a safe open or sneaking past a guard was simply a matter of practice. Knowing whether the house itself was going to rat you out was a far more important thing to know.

This was not the first time the Illustrious Highwayman had come to the Ingram’s Estate. This was, in fact, his fifth heist at the manor and soon to be his third successful one. The new master of the house was flamboyant and reckless. After succeeding his father, Young Master Ingram saw fit to banish all family portraits−save his own, of course−to the attic. He knocked down two walls on the east wing to put in a swimming pool of all things and had spent the last three months throwing at least three parties a week for all his young friends. Not classy parties, mind you, but the loud, rambunctious parties that disturb the neighborhood and go long into the night. The estate itself was apparently still reeling from last night’s soirée.

The Ingram’s Estate was a proud building that valued its history and lineage. It honored its past occupants and held them in great respect. It had made the job particularly difficult for the Highwayman during the last four heists; when Tyler Ingram Junior, Young Master Ingram’s father, was the head of the household. But Tyler Ingram Junior was a respectable man; a man who knew how to treat his house and had one hell of a right hook.

The Highwayman rubbed his cheek nostalgically as he fastened himself to the chimney with his supply of rope. He chuckled silently to himself as he remembered his last failed heist at the Ingram’s Estate. He was trying to steal the mask then too. Technically, thieves were not supposed to attempt to steal the same item from the same person more than once. But the mask had a new owner, and Young Master Ingram had it coming to him anyway.

As the Highwayman lowered himself by rope down the shaft, he couldn’t help shake the feeling that the estate was not going easy on him; rather it was about to make hell for the young master. Not that it mattered to him. As long as he safely slipped away with the mask in hand by the morning, his mission would be a success.

He slid the door open slightly. The guard was fast asleep. Silently, he pushed it the rest of the way open and slipped out onto the floor, rolling up to the safe. He brushed his cheek against the cool iron and placed a gloved hand on the dial.

Click! Click! Click!

Like magic, it opened. He glanced over his shoulder. The guard snored loudly in oblivion. He silently turned the handle and looked inside.

A feathered, red mask sat in an otherwise empty safe.

“Curses! Foiled again!” he shouted.

The guard stumbled awake, if such a thing could be done from a chair.

“Wha-? Who’s there?” he bumbled.

The Highwayman froze.

“Is that-Is that the Illustrious Highwayman?”

“What? No! I’m just a party guest. It’s a costume party, you know. Any idea where the water closet is?”

“No you aren’t. You’re him! The young master said you’d be coming one of these nights. “

The Highwayman stood silently, mouth agape.

“Look, it’s not as if it matters,” he moaned. “My sister beat me to the quarry.”

“The Red Mask II?” the guard prodded, moving to look inside the safe. “Well, I’ll be! She did get it. Right out from under my nose. And pregnant too! When is she due again?”

“In two months,” the Highwayman sobbed.

“Cheer up, mate,” the guard offered. “No sense in having you walk away empty-handed. Here!”

The guard produced a small bag and tossed it on the ground at the Highwayman’s feet. It clinked with the heft of coins.

“What’s this?”

“The young master says, ‘Think of it as a consolation prize.’”

“What? I’m not taking this!”

“Why not? It’s free money.”

“I’m supposed to be stealing rare artifacts and heirlooms, not petty change. And besides, it’s not stealing if you’re giving it to me.”

“Look fella,” the guard leveled. “The young master knew your sister was going to get the mask before you did. So he says to me, ‘Give him a little something for his trouble, poor bugger.’”

The Highwayman slowly became aware that since the appearance of his sister in London, his own career as a master thief had devolved into nothing more than a running joke. The bag of coin was the punchline.

“I’m not taking it.”

“Yes you are.”

“No I’m not.”

“Yes you are, because I’ll blow my whistle if you don’t. Them’s orders.”

“Well, I don’t care, I have pride, you know.”

“A thief with pride,” the guard chuckled derisively. “Look squire, the young master has given me this.”

He produced a brown bottle.

“Do you know what this is?” the guard asked.

“Whiskey?” the Highwayman ventured.

“This is enough whiskey to make me a very drunk man for a very long time. Now, I will go back to my seat and drink myself into oblivion and when I come out of it some time next morning, you and the bag will be gone. Understand?”

The Highwayman muttered.

“Understand?” the guard prodded again.

The Highwayman did not answer.

“Good,” he said as he made his way back to the chair. He bit off the cork and began his quest into the bottle.

The highwayman bent over and picked up the bag of coins. There had to be at least 100 pounds in there, enough to cover the costs of the failed heist and a bit more. But taking it meant−never mind.

He slowly climbed his way back up the shaft until he finally made it back up to the attic. he collected his gear and walked−floorboards squeaking the whole way−back to the window he had so carefully opened. Defeated, he slipped out into the cold, foggy night.

The Ingram’s Estate smirked.

Ep 1: iv. In Which Miss Susan Acquires a Mission and Poisons Herself, Not Necessarily in That Order

Susan had been quite scrupulous with the amount of facts she had let slip when interviewing with Mrs. Harman – namely, the exact position she served within Caesar’s army. It was not unheard of for a woman to serve, but the positions normally filled by the gentler sex were either along the lines of clerical work or political prostitution. Poison soldiers were not exactly a secret, but neither were they encouraged to tell all and sundry about their unnatural talents, and overall Susan was not sure whether a woman such as Mrs. Harman would rather have a high-class whore or a lethal man-killer under her roof. She suspected strongly that it would be the former, but all her martial training had taught her to err strongly on the side of caution. Miss Susan of 2B had held a scintillating position as a personal secretary to some minor officer who had never done anything but look out his window during the changing of the guard.

However, it did pose quite a problem when she was faced with a shelf full of arsenic, and not a damned good reason to take it otherwise. Mr. Blakeley, for his part, nervously wrung his hands behind her, seeming to, at any given moment, begin to speak and then falter into uneasy silence. She could have easily marched out of the shop – provided she take a detour to her apartment to put herself into some semblance of normality, instead of near-death – and up to Artorius’ office, where he would have given her a writ detailing exactly how many bottle of lethal poison Mr. Blakely give her (compliments of the government) per week for the rest of her natural life. That, of course, would be far too simple, and Susan refused to entertain any idea of asking Legate Artorius for any help unless she was on her hands-and-knees crawling, poised at death’s door. It seemed too much like admitting she could not take care of herself. Which she could. Provided she could find some way to get these bottle of arsenic off that shelf and into her hands with little to no questions asked.

“I need these,” she told him bluntly, turning toward him in a flurry of hair and cloth. “For my job.”

“As a clerk?” He sounded quite uncertain of the whole venture, just as any sane man would.

“I retired from that position,” she explained. It was not a complete lie.

He eyed her in a way most women would find offensive, but Susan found entirely normal. “Retired?”

“Yes. I had a distinguished career.” She floundered about, wondering what occupation (besides a spy, assassin, or poison soldier) would need arsenic. Or, perhaps more specifically, what occupation could she convince a man it was needed. “I’m now a…an investigator of peculiarities for interested persons.”

“A…personal investigator?” He gazed at her askance, wringing his hands anxiously.

“Yes. That.” She gestured. “And I need all that. For research. Of a private nature. Yes.”

“Well, I suppose –”

He had not even finished the thought before she gathered the bottles in a great clamor, jostled them together in the circle of her arms and bustled out, trying for all the world to not look like a thirsty man who had just been given a drink. She was certain she thanked him on the way out, but otherwise she made a beeline for her apartment, barely making it up the stairs before collapsing in a heap at her door, slamming the door behind her. She was dizzy, as if intoxicated or perhaps dying of dehydration (she had seen it happen before; a rotten way to go), but she managed to creep towards her cabinets and pull out a scotch glass. The corked bottle was too much for her shaking hands, and so she ripped out the top with her teeth, the bottle making a funny sort of ploop sound as she did so.

The centre had always administered the dose before – either through food and drink or the emergency syringes for missions, full of a mystery dilution that none of the nurses had ever shared with their charges. They had never thought to ask either, and when it came time to pour out her drink, Susan had no earthly idea just how much she should imbibe. She tipped the bottle in her hand to measure out a splash in the glass. Too little. Another splash made it about the amount in their emergency rations, she thought. She had been without for longer than one of her quick-fix doses would be able to handle, she thought, so she tipped her hand for another liberal dash. Good enough, she figured. She tossed her head back and opened her throat, letting the tasteless liquid slither down her esophagus.

Instantly, she knew she had made a horrible mistake.

Her stomach clenched and heaved, and for a moment she was sure she would vomit the whole mess up again, along with anything she had eaten that morning. She thought of Andrew, and immediately began making her peace with the Lord, hoping that if she got his attention now he would make her suffering less later. She broke out into a sweat, the water taken directly from her throat, she thought, since that instantly went dry. The floor came up to meet her, but thankfully she had been sitting on her knees and did not have far to fall, though she heard the hollow thunk her body made and mentally winced. The bruise would most likely cover her entire side, but it seemed the least of her problems as she lay convulsing, alone, on the wooden floor of her new apartment. It seemed a horribly sad way to go; she thanked the Lord that she was spared that indignity, even if it meant having spasms for hours while making God-knows what sounds.

This seemed to happen for an inordinately long time, but when she could manage to focus on the clock on the wall, only an hour had passed. She felt spent, and she had no immediate plans to move from her undignified position until she heard a hesitant knock at the door.

“Well, damn,” she sighed, and pushed herself to all-fours with a strength that seemed super-human.

She made her way to the door in a crawl, using the doorknob to pull herself up into a proper two-legged position. With a flourish, she opened the door, revealing a very scandalized Mr. Blakeley. A look down told her why; she saw that dust had gathered in clumps on her skirts, and her hem and waist were all askew, and she could only imagine the dirty nest her hair had crumpled up into. Added to the sounds she suspected she had been making…

Well, that was not precisely the impression she had hoped to give her neighbors. At least perhaps Mr. Morgan of 2A would take an interest in her now.

She made to smile winningly at the apothecary, only to see that he was not looking at her, but past her. A quick glance over her shoulder showed her a table full of clear glass bottles labeled ‘ARSENIC’ with a skull stamped below it, one opened and half full next to an empty but obviously recently used scotch glass.

Well, damn.

“If I may be so bold, Miss Susan,” said Mr. Blakeley, seeming anything but. “Do you have the French Disease?”

She blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Syphilis, miss,” he clarified.

Susan gaped. “Excuse me?”

“There is treatment now, a wonderful drug called Neosalvarsan. A friend of mine carries it in his shop; it would be no trouble at all –”

“No,” she sputtered out, finally gaining control of her mouth. “It’s not necessary. I mean, no, I am not afflicted, sir.” She looked around, and finally settled on, “It’s for my research.”

He coughed, appearing uncomfortable. “You poisoned yourself?”

“Do I look poisoned?” she snapped, before amending, “My work is of the utmost secrecy, sir. I am not at liberty to say what exactly I need the use of these…reagents for. You understand.” She offered him an innocent smile.

“You don’t…seem to be suffering from any effects of arsenic,” he relented, giving his hands a good wring.

“Yes, well, if you are satisfied with my good health, then I must be getting back to my business.” She made to close the door on him, but met with resistance.

The man had wedged his shoe and arm into the gap and was holding the door open with a surprising show of strength.

“There is the matter of my…payment, then.”

She frowned. Damn. “My employer will handle whatever costs, sir. Just write up a bill of receipt and I’ll be sure to forward it along.”

She entertained the thought of sending the note to Artorius, if only to see his face when he read the price. No doubt he would recover by saying something about how she couldn’t manage herself and ruin her triumph. No, she would be footing this bill herself.

“No need,” he pushed, leveraging the door open. “I know of another way you could pay me.”

Removed the pressure from her side of the door, it swung open, Mr. Blakeley stumbling in gracelessly, all limbs. She looked him over, wondering how such a mousy man could talk so easily of…ulterior payment.

“A close associate of mine has been seeking the employment of a…uh…person of discreet mien.” He wrung his hands again and sniffled. “He has a problem of a personal, awkward nature, and he would like it solved. It seems that a person of your particular…skill set would be of great assistance. He would pay handsomely, of course.”

Susan could only gape. “Are you offering me a job?”

“Only if you are not kept too busy by your current client.” He gazed pointedly over her shoulder toward the bottles.

She followed his look. “Ah. Yes. Well, that is an…ongoing case. I could take on others. Tell this friend that he has my services.”

“Ah! Excellent!” Mr. Blakeley clapped his hands together in a grateful gesture. “I shall tell him directly.”

“Yes, do that.” She slammed the door shut, turning towards more pressing matters – namely the large amount of government controlled poison on her coffee table. She thought she heard the apothecary shout a few niceties through the door; after all, a proper young lady was not in the habit of closing doors on a conversation, and she had most likely violated some universal truth he held self evident about women. It would take days for him to set himself to rights.

Perfect.

Ep 1: iii. In Which an Apothecary Comes to Tea

Though the building was small for three renters and one shop of respectable size, Susan did not meet either of her neighbors in the first week of her residence. It seemed that neither Mr. Blakely nor Mr. Morgan knew of her existence – or, she supposed, that they were entirely indifferent to a women living amongst their manly squalor. It certainly did not seem to be out of the ordinary for women to be wandering about the narrow stairway snugly squeezed between the shop, second floor, and side alley; and Mr. Morgan seemed to have absolutely no qualms of adding a woman or three to the nightly roster of tenants. If Mrs. Harman had said one correct thing her entire life, it was that Mr. Morgan liked his women a little fast. She could hear girlish squeals well into the night, far past the hours for decent visitors, and in the morning she often woke early enough to catch fashionable young ladies with their hair askew in all states of dishabille – often carrying their fashionable dresses in their arms while they laced their fashionable undergarments. Of Mr. Morgan of 2A, she saw nothing at all. Had she not seen the red-lipped, flushed-faced women on the stairs, or known of his Sunday teas with Mrs. Harman, she would have been quite tempted to postulate that Mr. Morgan of 2A did not, in fact, exist.

Mr. Blakeley, however, did.

She met Mr. Blakeley one week and one day after she had resigned her commission – incidentally, it was one day after she had begun to realize exactly why no other soldier of her particular station had ever resigned. It seemed it had an awful lot to do with a steady diet of arsenic; her arsennial gland was more than eager to provide her with enough naturally-made arsenic to last her three lifetimes, but without the real stuff to regulate it, she would slowly poison herself. Of course, every poison soldier knew that you couldn’t have too much either – when they had been small children, they had thought it funny to dare one another to eat whole bottles of it. At least, until they realized that all that poison had to go somewhere, and that somewhere was out, in any fashion it could manage. Susan had perpetually cried caustic tears for three days, and she had always been of the opinion that she had come out better than the other boys. The eldest, Jacob, just entering puberty, had sweat it all out; Duncan acted like he had drank a whole case of ipecac; and Andrew…well, his was worse.

In any case, she was feeling quite poorly when Mr. Blakeley came to pay the usual social niceties new neighbors did in the days before they began quarrelling about fences and whose pasture was on what side of the river and such. She looked just shy of death-warmed-over and was treading awfully close to ‘plague victim’ when she answered his pert knock, and was instantly underwhelmed with what lay before her. Mr. Blakeley, apothecary, was a tall, reedy man with a voice to match, and small, watery dark eyes that were rimmed in red, as if his eyes were constantly irritated. There was nothing much about his face that raised objection, except for the extraordinary way that one’s eyes slipped away from it. She was sure that if he were not the only person standing before her, interacting with her, she would not even be sure of his presence. And, of course, there was his hair.

Susan did not often judge a man on his personal appearance – after all, she was nothing sublime – but Mr. Blakeley almost seemed to beg it of her, with his poor attempt at having the long style of hair that had been en vogue with the previous generation. Even then, it had taken a specific sort of man to carry the style with any sort of dignity, and from his limp hair to his even more limpid personality, she was certain that Mr. Blakely was not the proper sort.

Wearily, she invited him in and at least made the gesture of offering him some tea, which he heartily thanked her for. It was not truly the answer she had been hoping for, especially when his eyes were alighting to every piece of furniture of her sparsely decorated flat, as if evaluating her by way of her interior decorating skills. No doubt he would find her wanting – her flat was the flat of a soldier, not of an independent woman of marrying age.

She tried to warn him that she had no cake or biscuits to go with tea, but he seemed determined to stay, and so she trotted off to put a kettle on. When she came back, she took a seat across from him and attempted to smile in a way that was unlike a bearing of teeth.

“Mrs. Dorsett told me you were unwell,” he explained suddenly. “She thought that perhaps I could help, since I am a licensed apothecary –”

She could not help but laugh, only a little unkindly. “I am sure that no remedy of yours could cure my ailment.”

“Everyone says that,” he with a smile that bespoke of a man who did not understand that his help was unwanted.

“Ah yes,” Susan agreed enthusiastically, “but I am unlike everyone else, you will find, in that I am not saying it to be coy. I do not care for whatever aid you think you can give me.”

He shifted, finally uncomfortable. “I assure you, I graduated top of my year at Oxford, and my scores for licensure were more than adequate –”

“I do not doubt your skill,” she clarified, though she was. She folded her hands messily over her lap. “I just have a specific problem that not even an Oxford man’s expertise could solve. Consider it a…familial disorder, if you would like.”

That seemed to satisfy him, at least, though it seemed he would like to protest.

“As you wish,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest. “Though I do have an extensive collection of compounds and chemicals at my disposal. I am sure I could at least find something to ease your condition.”

She swallowed a derisive snort. “I am sure you –,” Susan trailed, suddenly allowing the words chemicals and compounds and extensive collection seep into her mind, “– do.” She put on her best smile – the one she always saved for dignitaries and princes – and asked, “Could you show me?”

Ep 1: ii. In Which Miss Susan Meets the Estimable Widow Dorsett

Two decades and change worth of service to the Empire had brought Susan a substantial pension, which included a sizeable estate in some small part of Kent that her papers called ‘Maidenstone’. She considered it a gentle hint that the Empire would appreciate her quiet retreat into retirement, but it was not one she was willing to take. She found a nice, Spartan-looking flat over an apothecary that suited her, owned by what seemed to be a very opinionated be-cowled woman known as Mrs. Harman Dorsett.

Mrs. Harman, a widow as the woman proudly told her, had once been wife to the prior apothecary before he decided to up and die of a bad heart. Susan had the distinct impression that Mrs. Harman was quite put-out that he had done so without so much as a by-your-leave – after all, he had been in possession of a bad heart for most of his life, which had never stopped him from anything he had put his mind to before, and she didn’t see why he couldn’t just keep on living as he had if only he tried just a bit harder. It had, after all, been quite a bother to find another apothecary of any sort of moral fiber – really, didn’t she think apothecaries had just gone down the drain after the Caesar started allowing just anyone to get licensure? – and it seemed as nice as the ‘boy’ she had found was, he seemed to be an absolute fool for women.

Women, it seemed to Mrs. Harman, had gone down the drain as well. She had been letting out the flats above the apothecary for as long she seemed to remember – apparently, any time before her marriage to the late Mr. Harman Dorsett was a bit fuzzy and vague – and the only tenants that had given her any trouble were the women, and if Susan weren’t an upstanding former soldier, why she just wouldn’t have even considered her application.

There were two flats side-by-side above the apothecary; one owned by what Mrs. Harman called “a proper gentleman”, and the other to be owned by Susan. The widow confided to her that she couldn’t trust either Mr. Blakeley (who Susan assumed was the apothecary) or the estimable Mr. Morgan of 2A with the sacred duty of letting out the flat – they would no doubt give it to the first pretty face that struck their fancy, and then would poor Mrs. Harman be? Mr. Blakeley and Mr. Morgan apparently shared the same taste in woman, and Mrs. Harman could not help but think that the women they fancied were a little fast. She said the words in a dark, ominous town, as if women who were a little fast were the eighth plague of Egypt, and no doubt the epidemic would be the downfall of the Empire.

Though neither Mr. Blakeley nor Mr. Morgan were in, Mrs. Harman was certain that they would find her a suitable neighbor. She fished through her voluminous bag and produced a few papers that had very long words in very small print all over them, with room for Susan to sign her name at the bottom of the first and her initials on each page thereafter. As dull as she seemed, Mrs. Harman either hid her cleverness well or had been at least been quick enough to know her own limitations and hire a very good solicitor, for the contract was iron clad and well-written enough to be confusing for anyone who had not been raised to understand the complexities of imperial law. With a few strokes of her pen and a fair amount of bank notes, she became Miss Susan of 2B.

“Hm, Susannah,” Mrs. Harman hummed, reading the contract, “That’s a proper name for a lady.”

“It’s Susan.” She added belatedly, at Mrs. Harman’s appalled expression, “Please.”

“Hmm.” The widow gazed at her, calculating. “Susan is a good name too. Not as nice as Susannah…”

“Susan” she insisted, adding, “it’s a family name.”

It was a lie, wholly and completely, but it did the trick.

“Oh!” Mrs. Harman gasped with wide eyes. “Well, Susan it is then!” she agreed, patting her hands in what Susan thought might be a motherly fashion, but was possibly more like the way of a particularly distant but sweet great-aunt. Either way, during her tenure as Miss Susan of 2B, neither Mrs. Harman nor the Messrs. Blakeley and Morgan called her Susannah, which suited Susan just fine.

Ep 1: i. In Which a Woman Thinks of Thyme and Arsenic

Susan dreamed about spice racks. Of course, she did not dream of spice racks for a love of spices or woodwork or for whatever someone with a true love of actual spice racks would dream of them for, but because of what they stood for. It seemed to her that spice racks – the ones where the ceramic jars were carefully labeled in neat inked letters, and the contents were filled with herbs dried on the rafters of a sweet little home, collected with care – were the perfect sign of domesticity. A house with such an item would be a home – oh, and what a delicate and quaint home it would be! It would be the sort that was built of odd-shaped stones that made an attractive façade without the aid of concrete, and had roof of thatch or, well, whatever was something so nice and homey as thatch (not that Susan would know, for London was all about slate and tiles, which had no sort of warmth whatsoever, or even the slightest inkling of personality). It would be the sort of home that would have wood floors worn with footsteps, and ivy creeping up the outside in pretty patterns, and diamond-paned windows made of glass that looked out on a country road. It was the sort of house one would call a cottage – though Susan supposed that cottages were the sorts of places people with an awful lot of animals lived, and so often she thought perhaps there would be a dog that sat by the old, askew wooden fence, and a few chickens (she was not sure if chickens were fashionable, but it seemed the thing a woman would want, for women liked feathers, and birds have feathers and chickens were the sort of bird one had in a cottage) and maybe a cat or two (as ratters, she supposed, but they would not catch the mice, for the mice came part-and-partial with a cottage). The dog perhaps would greet his master when he came home, for every cottage must have a woman and every proper woman would be a wife, and the master would come in and tell his woman about his day and she would cluck and fuss and maybe use the spice rack on supper.

It was the sort of lovely dream one had when it was very clear that they would never have it. And, of course, Susan never could. But she wanted to. Oh, how she coveted such a dream.

And that was why, when she sat in front of her grim-faced commander, handing him the sheet that held her hastily scrawled resignation, she thought of spice racks.

Legate Tiberius Artorius Varro wore the face of a man who had seen everything twice, and was well aware he was on his third tour. Hand-picked by Caesar at least two-Caesars ago, and a man who had personally known Susan since she was barely able to stand; he could decipher the strange, incomprehensible look of a woman. Especially this woman.

“Susan,” Artorius said in a soft sigh, like a man who had worn a Susan-shaped groove for that particular name in that particular tone. “Tell me you aren’t thinking of your spice racks.”

She had often regretted telling him, in a fit of intense and awful agony during adolescence (which now seemed quite ridiculous and almost amusing from the safe side of twenty), about her cozy, ivy covered dream cottage and the condiments she fantasized were inside. Out of the myriad of times she had been gripped with the emotion, this was the time where she felt it most keenly, and wished most fervently that she had not bared her injured little soul to him.

“No,” she lied, “it’s just time.”

“I am aware of your politics,” he said in a weary tone, “but you do know that there will never be a cottage covered in roses or –”

“Ivy,” she corrected petulantly before she could stop herself. To compensate for her slip, she pressed her lips firmly together; making what a man from Artorius’ side of the desk would call a pout.

He exhaled loudly from his impressive nose – a Varro nose, to say the least, as everyone had told him since he had lost the chubby child-fat from his face – and steepled his fingers thoughtfully. “What was done to you,” he began, with more than a small shade of old guilt, “cannot be undone.”

“I know,” she replied brightly, with a smile that hurt to give. “It’s not…personal.”

He waved his hand in an open, vague gesture. “Should you ever change your mind…”

Susan supposed he wished for her to finish the sentence, as she had in younger years, but he had made light of her dream cottage and that alone made her feel uncharitable.

He drew his hand back and knitted its fingers together with the other, starting to feel as if he would pout himself. “You must agree to never work against the Caesar.”

“I have no intention to.”

“Nor leave the Empire,” he reminded her, “Especially not for territories of wild nature. Nor leave for any uncivilized colony of the Empire. And especially do not go anywhere where you might meet Celestials in a less than neutral manner –”

“I do not plan to leave London,” she assured him. “I will sign the papers, if I may.”

He scowled, but retrieved the very papers from his desk. She scrawled her name – the Empire had failed her when it came to penmanship – and handed them back. When she finished, they both stood awkwardly; where a man with paternal inclinations would pat such a soldier on the back and wish him luck, Artorius only nodded stiffly.

“Should you need anything,” he said finally, “I know a man…”

Poison puffed out peevishly from the pores along her neck. He could not see it, but he knew the hazy look about her shoulders that indicated its presence. “I do not require help.”

“Nevertheless,” he said, making the open gesture with his hand once more, “should you; I know one.”

She gave him a crisp nod and left, shutting the heavy door with an unnecessary slam. Artorius dropped heavily into his chair, and wondered if any Legate before him had ever felt the same as he. He shook the frivolous thought away. Of course not.

Poison soldiers had a very short shelf life. Susan, through luck or skill, had managed to outlive her usefulness.