A Matter of Time: The Unlikely Adventures of Mortensen & Spurlock, #1

By Lucy True and Jea Hawkins

It's not easy finding love in 1892 Victorian London.
 

Midnight adventures, artifact hunting, and the occasional murder—it's all in a day's (or night's) work for Alice Mortensen. As an Aetheral, a supernatural race with special abilities, she is hardly an eligible marital prospect, even with her upper class social status. Not that she minds. The woman she once loved broke her heart and that, for Alice, is that.

Until said woman, one Lady Eleanora Spurlock, returns with a desperate request: find a powerful artifact to ransom in exchange for a kidnapped servant. It's one thing for Alice to risk her life. It's quite another to risk her heart for the second time.

But her perpetual curiosity about the mysterious Aetheric world is enough temptation for Alice to gamble both. Soon, both Alice and Nora are fighting off fireballs, an over-eager stepmother determined to see them marry, and each other in a race to rescue an innocent lady's maid.

 

Explosions, both metaphorical and literal, abound in this lesbian steampunk adventure!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Persephone Press
• Release date: May 7, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393778417

Book preview

Chapter One

Time was irrelevant to Alice Mortensen since she would live a longer life than most. Even with that assurance, she embraced order and routine as necessary to a fulfilling existence. Therefore, Alice thought pre-dawn hours were most convenient for the task of poking about in a dark corner outside the Tower of London, even if it did interfere with her sleep. These sorts of nocturnal activities allowed her to maintain an otherwise socially-acceptable schedule during daylight hours.

Of course, such endeavors required appropriate attire, something Alice had forgotten tonight. The chilly early April breeze seeped through the wool of her black frock coat and the flimsy fabric of her day dress. Suppressing a shiver, she glanced back the way she’d come. A solitary walk around the shadowed perimeter would unnerve even the most daring soul. It would certainly send most women into a fit of swooning, but Alice prided herself on not conforming to vapid feminine stereotypes. She lifted her chin and continued her search around the imposing edifice, approaching the White Tower, the innermost keep, which had aged remarkably well. Considering it was now 1892 and the tower had stood since 1078, Alice couldn’t help but admire it.

Extending her Aetheric senses, she waited and then received the tug of an answering item at the base of the tower—an item empowered with Aetheric energy. It rarely took long for her to find what she sought and this piece was no exception. She narrowed her eyes and called to it, drawing the thing from its resting place of over four centuries. There was no resistance. Her hand was empty one moment and the artifact appeared in it the next, witched from the ground like water.

If she’d been a man and gone public about her abilities, Alice could have boasted a reputation as the most successful artifact hunter in all of Britain. As it was, she didn’t receive half the credit she deserved, but that didn’t deter her from smirking with pride at her latest accomplishment.

Handling the article delicately, she turned it over in her hands and a thrill of pleasure ran through her. It wasn’t often that such artifacts had the good manners to respond so promptly to her summons. Obtaining this little piece of history would be worth the lack of sleep. She smiled down at it, allowing herself a satisfying moment of egotistical self-approbation.

Something else sent a tingle along her flesh, this sensation neither pleasant nor welcome. She reached into her coat to bring forth a fan with her other hand. The approaching Aetheral’s energy continued to test her, like a caress of ice on the back of her neck, followed by a flicker of shadowed movement at the perimeter of her vision.

By his cold aura, she identified him as a celestial, probably intent upon taking the article for himself. That simply won’t do, angel boy, Alice muttered. With a flick of her wrist, she snapped the fan open in a flash of silver and spun to face him.

The celestial snarled at her. Do not speak so disrespectfully to me, woman. How did you make it come to you? Since like responds to like, you must have used daemon magick to summon that accursed thing!

Rather than lecture him on what was wrong about his accusation, Alice batted her eyelashes. How pathetic that all men, whether human or Aetheral, were so predictable. You say ‘daemon’ like it's a bad thing, she cooed. And it’s not my fault I’m better at my work than you are. Admit that you simply don’t like being bested by a woman, and an infernal one, at that.

Alice tucked her prize into the pouch hanging from her black leather corset and watched the other Aetheral stalk her. He circled, keeping his distance despite the large sword clutched in his hands. The celestial power streaming off the blade flowed around Alice and a wave of frost filled the vast area around the Tower, turning the tender shoots of new grass, buds, and leaves a shade of hoary white.

Oh my, we are serious, are we not? Wilting innocent green things, and for what? I take it you want this. She patted her pouch and swept her fan up in front of her face. Too bad you won't be getting it.

That thing contains daemonic energy and must be destroyed. Hand it over if you want to live, you infernal jezebel, the celestial retorted.

Or what? Will you unleash hell? Alice quipped with a wink. I suggest you bring your language up to speed with the modern standards of the nineteenth century. Despite being only twenty-one years old—and a lady of high social standing, as her stepmother loved to remind her—few insults surprised or upset her. Such language was the mark of one who lacked inventiveness and Alice couldn’t help but laugh.

With a roar of rage, the man charged at her. Alice side-stepped at the last moment, neatly evading the swing of the celestial’s frigid blade.

She turned as he rushed past her. Your Aetheric powers are far more effective than your skills with a sword. But my advice is that you forget this item and find something else to do with your morning. You’re wasting your time here.

Once more, the celestial made an inarticulate sound of anger. He charged her a second time, the sword still gripped in both hands. Alice watched him bore down on her, her face a mask of calm. She even raised her hand to her mouth to cover a yawn.

Insufferable bitch, he snarled, guiding the blade down toward her.

Alice reacted in a heartbeat, slashing up along his torso with her fan while dodging his swing. The celestial stumbled back, one hand letting go of the sword to press at the gaping wound now extending from his waist to his chest.

And angels sing thee to thy rest, Alice quoted before flinging the fan at her rival. It sliced across his throat, before spinning back to her waiting hand, a neat little trick she’d put many worthwhile hours into practicing when she ought to have been entertaining guests with her stepmother. While she caught it with a deft grip and dropped her arm to her side, the other Aetheral crumpled to the ground and give up his last breath of life. Alice shook her head in silent apology and bent down to wipe the blood from the leading edge of her fan onto the fallen celestial’s sleeve. Within moments, his body flaked completely away into nothingness. That was one of nature’s neat tricks when it came to her kind and it never failed to amaze her, that reminder of how fleeting their physical form was in this time and place.

Tilting her head, Alice looked down at the now-empty space on the ground, and shook her head again in disapproval. This could have been avoided, if you didn’t have the audacity to charge at me. I had no choice but to kill you, to prevent you from killing me. I’m almost sorry that I had to do it, but not quite. Maybe your kind will learn one day to live and let live. I do hate to be rude, but I’ve already lost count of how many I’ve taken out of this world. Rude or not, though, I don’t have to suffer these attempts on my life with grace.

EVER A CREATURE OF habit, Alice didn’t tolerate any disruption to those habits. It suited her to fulfill specific requests or assignments on behalf of others in the shadowy hours between four and six o’clock in the morning. Regardless of the previous night’s activities, she rose from her bed by eight o’clock each morning and sat at the breakfast table at half-past eight without fail.

The Times in hand, she sat at the table of their spacious dining room and read the newspaper from front page to back page, her mind absorbing each tidbit of news. This trait—her flawless memory for stories and names, facts and figures—was part of her half-infernal heritage, passed down from her mother according to her father. In addition to this, Alice possessed an inquisitive mind and, as such, always sought to satiate her desire for knowledge.

Thus, when her stepmother called her name, Alice sighed and shook her paper in agitation. She’d barely made it to the table by half-past as it was. The events of her early morning had left her with little time to sleep, but she had no desire to remain abed. She refused to miss any part of her daily routine because of a little pre-dawn tiff over an obscure artifact.

The shrill summons meant Alice had to set The Times down on the dining room table and interrupt her normal morning routine to answer to Matilda’s whim. If not for such an inconvenience, it would have been a glorious day.

Her half-sister, fifteen-year-old Charlotte, seemed oblivious to Alice’s consternation. The younger girl was deeply engrossed in some novel or another, and barely eating her breakfast as she bent her dark head and lovely face to the pages of the book. Alice supposed it was better than some of the activities other ladies of quality indulged in, such as chattering over fashion magazines or giggling about men. However, Charlotte’s parents coddled her. The result of such over-protectiveness was that Alice had a timid younger sister, unwilling to speak or interact with society for fear it would draw her out of the fantasy world within the novels she enjoyed so well. Thus, she was an unsuitable companion as far as Alice was concerned, and they rarely spoke to one another.

Still, at least Charlotte could claim a normal, human heritage, and the legitimacy of lawfully wedded parents.

Even twenty-one years later, society hadn’t forgotten how Nigel Mortensen’s fling with an Aetheral had left him heartbroken and alone to care for an infant daughter who displayed her mother’s same daemon tendencies. Alice didn’t know the details surrounding the relationship, nor did she care. Society found the retelling of such tittle-tattle an interesting pastime, when there were no current amusements to occupy them.

Smoothing back her abundant waves of her honey blonde hair, Alice took the stairs at a sedate pace. While many things annoyed Alice, few things unnerved her. With the patience of one who was not only British, but also gifted with near-immortality, she bore the state of affairs of her current existence with equanimity.

Had anyone known Alice’s innermost thoughts of Well, at least my stepmother will die someday and do so long before me, and then I will be rid of her, they might have thought her a strange creature indeed. However, she merely considered herself rational, not cruel-hearted.

Aetherals were apart from the mortal world, nonhuman as far as anyone knew. Yet, even though they were immortal and couldn’t comprehend the experience of mortal existence, they lived among humans and often produced offspring with them. Consequently, here walked Alice, with one foot in the mortal realm and the other planted firmly in the Aetheric one.

Even though her Aetheric nature was common knowledge in upper class society, Alice’s special abilities were not. She’d come into her abilities at the onset of womanhood and taken her father and a few close friends into her confidence. Having once seen a pre-teen Alice inadvertently call an artifact, her stepmother was also aware of her abilities, but pretended they didn’t exist. An Aetheral stepdaughter was a liability when it came to the marriage market, and Matilda did everything she could to downplay this quality in her stepdaughter.

Entering her stepmother’s elaborate boudoir, Alice made a great show of extracting a pocket watch from the inside of her stiff bodice. The day dress into which she’d changed after her early morning adventure was an elaborate affair, the bodice made of dark brown leather with silver gears and golden wisps of ivy worked into it in the most eye-catching embroidery. There was a generous application of silver lace to either side to offset the bronze studs edging it. Three-quarter length sleeves, a fetchingly high neck, the inner material, and skirt were all of a chocolate-brown taffeta that rustled crisply when she walked.

She had several such dresses of leather and taffeta, which she referred to as her work clothes. The heavy fabric and layer of leather protected Alice from the scorching heat, steam, chemicals, and more when she tinkered in her father’s workshop. It also had the added convenience of several metal loops sewn along the inside hem, both on the top and the bottom, an alteration Alice had performed on every single one of her working bodices. She attached pouches, such as the one she wore now, to these loops. Sometimes, she used them to hold tools or implements that she wanted to have immediately on hand for work.

Alice studied the watch and raised an eyebrow at it. The second hand moved with excruciating slowness. She reminded herself that it wasn’t that time mattered. She had far more of it than any person she knew. What mattered to her was the freedom to manage her own personal time each day.

Tucking the watch back into her dress, Alice lifted her gaze to her stepmother. The older woman watched her impatiently, waiting for her stepdaughter’s full attention. Alice had to admit the visible way in which the woman flinched when their eyes met gave her some satisfaction. There was nothing unusual in Alice’s facial features, other than her golden eyes. It was simply her stepmother’s knowledge of her stepdaughter’s Aetheric heritage that seemed to disconcert her.

Matilda Mortensen was highly concerned with appearances and having an Aetheral for a daughter was not done. Alice often yearned for a sweet, calm stepmother who desired that she better her mind, rather than enhance her already comfortable station in life. Instead, she had to live with Matilda.

The woman spent most of her days sitting at her vanity, rubbing various beauty products into her skin until it gleamed with radiant health. Alice doubted Matilda needed such products. Despite the fact that her stepmother didn’t look a day over thirty, bottles of antiaging tonics, lotions, and creams crowded her dressing table. She’d probably wasted more money on such fripperies than most people earned in a lifetime.

Alice, darling, how kind of you to join me. Will you be a good girl and bring me some of that new lotion from Warom’s Apothecary today? Matilda asked in a sugary sweet voice, before turning her attention back to the mirror in front of her. With sponge in hand, she dabbed a thick, white cream into her forehead and scrutinized her reflection.

I planned to work with my father this morning, Alice protested, her eyebrow cocked once more to signify her impatience. She knew this expression crossed her features more often than not, but she found it difficult not to regard mortal foibles with censure. Why not walk to Warom’s yourself for the products you want? The fresh air will do wonders for your skin.

As it is now spring, it would hardly be seemly for me to step out of doors during the day. Matilda smoothed the cream down her cheeks with long strokes of the sponge. I certainly don’t need the sun, and my parasol is so frightfully last season I couldn’t possibly venture out with it.

If you dared go out at least once during the day, you might find a new parasol, which would allow you to take more fresh air. Exercise is fundamental to one’s good health and maintaining a youthful appearance. Practicality was Alice’s most dogmatic trait and she refused to change, especially for her stepmother’s delicate sensibilities.

Matilda’s back stiffened and she turned to glare at Alice with thinly veiled fury. I’m sure Nigel can do without your assistance for a short time. Her stepmother’s response lacked the syrupy quality of her initial greeting.

If words could kill, I would be a dead daemon, Alice thought, stifling a smirk of amusement. She knew Matilda detested the closeness her husband and his firstborn daughter shared, and made no secret of that sentiment.

Nigel Mortensen was a sharp-witted scientist and devious artificer. While Alice had inherited the physical features, rational emotions, and infernal gifts of her birth mother, she was Nigel’s daughter in matters of the mind and mood. A sense of tranquility tempered her determination to complete a job. Alice betrayed neither frustration nor agitation beyond a facial expression. She often wondered if Matilda was trying to test her, to see if she could somehow unsettle her. However, the young Aetheral remained imperturbable.

As you wish, Stepmother. Alice left Matilda’s room, not defeated so much as resigned. She did have plans to visit Warom’s, but not until after lunch. If there was one thing that vexed Alice, it was having her schedule disrupted. However, if there was one thing that provoked even stronger ire, it was having to endure Matilda’s griping if her stepmother didn’t get her way. With a shake of her head, Alice stopped to check her reflection in a gilded mirror hanging at the top of the stairs.

Mirrors.

There were far too many in the house for Alice’s liking. Matilda wanted it that way, of course, so she could inspect her own appearance at every turn.

As Alice plucked fastidiously at the taffeta ruffles that enclosed her neck above the leather bodice, she hazarded a glimpse at her tawny, catlike eyes. Perhaps her appearance bothered people after all, and maybe she was mistaken in believing they didn’t fear her. Still, she’d never been one to worry about her heritage or other people’s reactions to it.

Although young, she acknowledged that she had a decidedly inflexible personality. The world was a place she wanted to explore, a puzzle she wanted to solve, preferably without the interference of undesirable stepmothers. For now, her days were well ordered and settled. There was time enough for change should she ever desire it in the future.

With a sigh of frustration, Alice pulled on her frock coat and fastened the two large buttons on the front. She smoothed the lapel over her shoulders and chest, plucked her lacy black parasol from the stand next to the door, and set off to run Matilda’s errand. Despite the fact that her stepmother made her despair of her entire gender, she comforted herself with the thought that the day could only improve from this moment onward.

Chapter Two

The walk from her Albemarle Street home to Warom’s Apothecary on Piccadilly Street was much too short. Alice wished her destination were a little farther from home. Despite the disruption to her plans for the day, she relished every opportunity to get out of the magnificent house her stepmother had carefully cultivated into a den of fashionable luxury. She loved being out of doors and in the fresh air. It gave her cheeks a glow that enhanced her unfashionably butterscotch complexion. While most women drank vinegar or used creams to whiten their complexions, Alice did little more than protect her skin from the sun with a parasol.

Warom’s Apothecary was a dark, narrow little shop inconspicuously nestled next to the Swan and Edgar department store. Part of what made the Apothecary so enticing to the wealthy denizens of the area was its faintly sinister air of mystery. One thing the fashionable ladies loved was imaginary intrigue. Nobody knew what Mr. Warom might have brewing in the back of the shop, and the women enjoyed speculating about the possibilities in quiet, yet high-pitched, tittering whispers at parties or as they walked through St. James.

Leaving the brougham-crammed street and pedestrian-packed sidewalk, Alice entered the shop, trailing her parasol behind like an afterthought. Her gloved hands clutched reflexively at the accessory’s handle as a combination of indelicate odors assailed her senses. She generally enjoyed a visit to Warom’s Apothecary, as the shop often smelled of spices such as pumpkin and cinnamon. However, this particular scent was bitter and rancid enough to make even her nose—a nose that had experienced the breath-inhibiting sensations of steam, the tang of metal, and a variety of unpleasant chemical odors—wrinkle with distaste.

Ah, Miss Mortensen, what a pleasure it is to see you today. Simon Warom stepped out of the back room from which the noxious stench wafted. He was the son of, as well as apprentice to, the apothecary.

At nineteen years old, Simon remained happily unwed. Like Alice, he had grown up without a mother and in the care of a scientifically-minded father. To her stepmother’s chagrin, Simon was also Alice’s closest friend and confidante. Matilda opined on more than one occasion that it was inappropriate for two young people of such disparate backgrounds to form a close attachment to one another. Her father, on the other hand,