The Dashkova Memoirs (Books 1-4)

By Thomas K. Carpenter

Exile. Princess. Thief.

THIS BOX SET INCLUDES FOUR BEST SELLING BOOKS WITH OVER A 1000 PAGES OF THRILLING ACTION—AND 500 FIVE-STAR REVIEWS/RATINGS!

Ekaterina "Kat" Dashkova and a young Ben Franklin investigate supernatural forces amid the afterbirth of the American Revolution, but they must avoid the assassins bent on stopping them and ushering in a new world order led by sinister forces.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Thomas Carpenter
• Release date: May 4, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005127480

Thomas K. Carpenter

Thomas K. Carpenter resides in Colorado with his wife Rachel. When he’s not busy writing his next book, he's out hiking or skiing or getting beat by his wife at cards. Visit him online at www.thomaskcarpenter.com, or sign up for his newsletter at https://www.subscribepage.com/trialsofmagic.

Book preview

Revolutionary Magic

Chapter One

Some revolutions begin with the gunpowder sonnets of cannon fire, others with the fiery words of tyrannical men. This one began with a middle-aged gentleman wandering the cobblestone streets of Philadelphia in his knickers—and nothing else.

Ben Franklin and I had been called to investigate, not because half-naked mid-level functionaries of the Custom Hall were particularly interesting to the pair of us, or because he'd broken into a Quaker family's home on an idyllic spring afternoon and was caught trying to put on the oldest daughter's beige dress and petticoat. What drew us was the way the man's memory had been cleaved like an apple struck with a saber, suggesting an air of sorcery.

You say he has no knowledge of what happened to him? asked Ben with that familiar twinkle in his eye.

The horrified wife, one Harriet Cooper, tugged on the neckline of her muslin gown and glanced at her husband, who was slurping porridge in the other room at the dining table. Her brow knotted and raised, then bunched in the middle with a concern that bordered on exasperation.

He still thinks it's 1798, she said, then raised her voice. "That was two years ago."

The woman barely paid me any attention, speaking directly to Ben, though she did not know him as such. Ben went by his grandson's moniker, William Temple Franklin, due to his youthful appearance—one born of alchemy. But Ben had that quality—of sincere competence and a worldly optimism—that led people to trust him implicitly, even when they'd just met him.

Anonymity suited me fine. I'd spent my fair share of time in the spotlight of the public. I'd been a princess of the Russian Empire—thankfully, not one with much claim on the throne—and the head of the Russian Academy of Sciences, a position that had eventually led to my exile by Emperor Paul.

With attention on Ben, I moved around the parlor, examining its contents for clues that might hopefully explain the odd behavior of Theodore Cooper. The gilded tea set on the darkwood armoire surprised me due to the nature of the man's profession. A lowly manager would doubtfully earn enough to purchase such luxuries, which suggested either that he was not above a little bribery to grease goods through the port, or he was a man moving up the chain—heavy emphasis on was.

The furniture had the markers of French craftsmanship— curved backs and satin cushions. The whole setup could have been a lounge in a Paris salon. The house was the typical Philadelphian style, decently sized with a portico on the front, though the newness of the furniture indicated the wealth was recent.

Excuse me, madam, I said, trying to practice my English without a heavy French accent. Yes, French. I was born in St. Petersburg and we spoke French rather than Russian since we were a city on the edge of Europe. Is that your family's steam carriage outside?

An insincere exclamation slipped out of Harriet Cooper's thin lips. Oh? And you are?

Katerina Carmontelle, I said, giving a brief curtsey even though I was wearing men's attire, Temple's assistant in these matters.

In truth, my real name was Yekaterina Romanovna Vorontsova-Dashkova, sometimes called Princess Dashkova, or Catherine the Little. Ben liked to call me Kat, though only in private when we were discussing important matters. We weren't amours, but I can't say the thought hadn't crossed my mind.

Katerina is an expert on these sorts of things, said Ben, adding his trademark wink for my benefit.

Expert was a bit of a facetious graying of the truth. The word expert connoted a vast wealth of knowledge about the arcane and poorly understood phenomena that had begun to plague our poor world. I was an expert, along with Ben and the rest of the Transcendent Society, only in the idea that our ignorance was slightly less pronounced than the common folk’s, but our studies had begun in earnest as strange events seemed to be happening more frequently as of late.

Oh, well, said Harriet, her uneasy gaze surveying my attire with a puritan's level of distaste. Why yes, my dear Theodore purchased it only three weeks ago. He was up in the boughs about it, said it was the latest fashion to own your own steam carriage. Blazes if I know why he bought it, we live two blocks from the Delaware River, not even a brisk walk in the springtime. Next thing, he'll be wanting to purchase an airship. Well—her voice quivered—if he recovers.

I'm sure he'll recover, said Ben, giving her a comforting pat on the shoulder.

Is your husband an elbow-shaker? I asked.

Harriet recoiled as if I'd poked her with a hot branding iron. Madam, she said, disdain dripping from her words, have you no decency? He does not gamble, throw the bones, or any of those things. He doesn't even know what the inside of a tavern looks like. My Theodore is an upstanding member of the Philadelphia government offices, soon to be, well I hope—a pained realization began to dawn on her dignified face—that he is to be promoted to the Head of the Customs Hall, a position that comes with a generous salary.

I see, I said, raising an eyebrow in Ben's direction and receiving a shrug in turn.

Madam, said Ben, turning to the woman, may we speak to your husband in private? Nothing untoward, but we don't want to disturb you unnecessarily.

She paled, straight to a greenish tint. What under the merciful sun do you think has befallen my dear husband?

Ben put his arm around Harriet in a comforting fashion, giving her shoulder a little squeeze as he guided her from the room. Could be a number of things: the French pox, a witch's curse, maybe worms eating his brains out from the inside, it's really hard to say.

When Harriet's knees buckled, Ben gave her a little push out the parlor door and quickly closed it behind her.

You really don't believe those things, I said, quirking a smile at him. Trying to figure out if she was behind it?

Partially, he said with a wry smile. The other half was to keep her from gossiping. I have it from a reliable source she couldn't keep her mouth closed if she was drowning. Any of those possible causes would diminish her reputation, if it hasn't already been dragged through the gutter because of this incident.

The dockmaster's daughter? I asked. Or is it the tanner's wife?

Who injured Mr. Cooper? he asked, nose wrinkled in confusion.

No, the gossiping strumpet you've been sleeping with, I said.

Ben looked as pleased as a pickle. Wouldn't you like to know. He pressed a finger against the bridge of his nose, a habit from when he wore bifocals. Either way, Mrs. Cooper has fled to the bedroom for a bout of honest tears. I think we can take her off the list.

I hadn't been so daft as to consider her, I said.

Why the blazes not? he asked.

For the very reason you just mentioned. Her reputation has been tarnished. We women have little power in this world, a reputation is one of them. A good wife knows that a dead husband is worth more than a diminished one, I said.

I'll keep that in mind should I ever be foolish enough to court you, he said.

My dalliance with the Warden should be warning enough for you, I said with considerable regret.

Ben offered a comforting nod. He had that way about him that I'd never encountered in another, to always know when the mood of the conversation had shifted. The twin reminders of my failed romances—the death of my beloved Mikhail when he was in his twenties and the recent incident with the Warden of the city—bookended my life, leaving me with a tragic distaste for entanglements.

Shall we? asked Ben, marching into the dining room.

We addressed Mr. Theodore Cooper from across the mahogany table. He had a handlebar mustache and a sloping belly that made him look like a walrus. Porridge dripped from his chin. I could see a pinhole of conscious thought in those beady eyes, as if he was trapped in a tower inside his head.

Good evening, Theodore, said Ben. May we ask you some questions?

Theodore grunted and shoved the empty spoon in his open mouth like an infant.

What year is it? asked Ben.

Theodore blinked. 1798.

We shared an uneasy glance. Mrs. Cooper had told us she'd shown him the local paper to prove that it was 1800. Ben waved us back into the parlor.

Is it possible someone attacked him? I asked. Maybe a blow to the head? I've heard of concussions from falling, or a hoof blow from a wild horse. There once was a promising son of Count Razumovsky who was trampled by a cow. He didn't even know his name afterwards and spent his days drooling into a cup. They called him Cow Boy from that day forward.

Ben rubbed his palm across the arching back of the green velvet divan. Even though I'd known him for almost a year, I was still surprised at how energetic he was, always moving, thinking, or conspiring.

The physician gave him a thorough examination. There was no evidence of a head trauma, though he did find a scab at the base of his neck right in the hairline, said Ben, frowning.

A wig rub? I asked.

Most likely. Probably hadn't yet invested in higher quality wigs, he said. The physician also said there was a sticky material on his arm that came off with a bit of vinegar—unrelated, I'm sure.

His furniture is quite new. I'll ask the wife if he ordered a custom fit wig recently, I said, feeling a little guilty we were conversing about the poor sot right in the other room.

Good idea. Ben glanced at me. What do you think?

More questions, we've naught to go on yet, I said.

We returned to the dining room.

What if I told you that it was the year 1800? Ben asked Mr. Cooper.

Theodore squinted as if he was trying to squeeze out a coherent answer. His stare turned watery. He seemed to know deep down inside how trivial the question was and consequently, what it meant that he couldn't answer.

It's 1798, he repeated with much consternation.

I assure you with some authority that it's the glorious year of 1800, the turn of the century and another page in the storybook of history. And since it is 1800, do you remember what you did last week? asked Ben.

Last week...? I, uhm, greatly apologize, it's rather difficult, I think. Maybe, no wait, yes, I'm sure of it. Last week I painted the parlor for my dear Harriet. A difficult job, that one. I knocked the paint bucket over right in the middle, created such a mess, and Harriet put me under her cat's paw for the rest of the job, said Theodore in an unsteady voice that grew more confident as he spoke.

Ben tapped on his chin. Well, then, what about—

Excuse my interruption, my dear Temple, I said, putting a hand on Ben's arm. On what street is your house located?

Pine and Fifth, madam, Theodore said, and realizing he had porridge on his chin, he mauled it off with a wad of handkerchief.

I raised an eyebrow in victory towards Ben, who shrugged and tilted his head as if to say go on.

Sir, might I ask you to take a short trip outside to inform us of the street on which you currently reside? I asked.

Theodore looked about, as uncomfortable as a banker in a poorhouse. I just told you where I live. What would I gain by reaffirming what I already know?

Humor an old lady, I said, receiving a cleared throat and sharp glare from Ben. The alchemical mixture Ben Franklin had devised to extend life also made one's appearance youthful in every way. Since I'd arrived in Philadelphia one year ago, under his tutelage and taking regular supplements of the powder, my fifty-seven year old body looked and felt half that age. Thankfully, Theodore hadn't noticed my slip, and he reluctantly proceeded as requested.

Once he was gone, I turned back to Ben. There's no reason to think this is magic.

Ben chuckled lightly. After all you've seen this past year? I have to admit, when anything strange happens, even an unexpected noise outside my window, I suspect a sidhe lord or a grumpkin is creeping through my hedgerow.

"The great Franklin believes in faeries? You should be worried about your reputation," I said.

Temple's reputation, you mean, he said.

Right. But why the occult when there are so many more plausible explanations? Must I lecture you on Descartes' principles of analytics?

The stillness that overtook Ben was immediately visible. Though he didn't usually censor himself, I could tell he was holding back.

There are other incidents you haven't told me about, aren't there? I asked.

That might be one way to put it, he said. I don't want to taint your perception with my conclusions. But let's wait for Mr. Cooper to return. I sense you've hit upon an important point.

Theodore Cooper returned. His face was milky white and he had a look of pinched thought. It was almost as if part of him recognized the truth and what it meant, while the other part was still trying to work through the problem.

What street did you encounter outside? I asked, trying rather unsuccessfully not to let my pride fill the words.

Chestnut and Twelfth, he said, swallowing. Why would I not be in my own house?

"You are in your house, I said. I believe that you invaded that Quaker family's home because that used to be your home, two years ago."

I don't understand, he said, looking around as if he were seeing the house for the first time. This is my house? I thought this was the physician's.

Sir, said Ben, do you remember if anyone attacked you?

Theodore tugged on his lower lip as if he were trying to yank out the proper memory. I would have remembered something like that, I'm sure of it. But I'm not even sure why I'm here. I was putting on my clothes and then these people were screaming and a fellow accosted me with a wood axe. Have they no decency?

Ben moved around the table and ushered poor Theodore out of the room, encouraging him to return upstairs to his wife, suggesting he should relax and not think too much at the current moment. Theodore looked rather relieved to be given such an order and appeared more than ready to carry out the mission of doing nothing, though he had to be given directions to his destination.

An amnesiac would at least know that he was missing part of his past, said Ben. Poor Theo seems to not even realize that it's missing.

Deep inside he does, which means something happened, I said. You were going to show me something, I think. Something back in the parlor.

Ben winked. How perceptive of you. What gave it away?

I recognized your gunnysack, and when you mentioned magic, you glanced in its direction, I said.

Remind me never to play cards with you, he said.

First courting, now cards? Do I disturb you that much? I asked with a grin.

He laughed. I wouldn't use the word disturb. He put on his serious face. But I should conclude the business here before the Coopers get tired of us.

Please, I said, my curiosity awakened. What's in the sack? Then I caught the way he talked about the investigation in a singular manner.

Why don't you trust me? I said, dispelling the jovial mood.

When he looked up and paused, it wasn't the smile on his lips that I saw, but the cold calculation in his gaze. Though his face was welcoming, behind those piercing grey eyes I imagined there was a great library of information and thought, and he was reviewing dusty tomes and calculating courses of action.

He sighed, his barrel chest heaving and releasing. I recognized the tightness in him—he was holding something back.

Temple, I said. What's going on?

Can you confirm for me that you've severed all ties with the Russian court? he asked. Someone in the Society intercepted a message that could have only come from someone intimate with our struggles. Was that you?

This is Voltaire's doing, I spat back. He's trying to cast doubt on my honesty.

Ben nodded grimly. I trust you implicitly; however, the evidence is quite damning.

Will you tell me what it is or am I to be put on trial, sentenced, and hung without representation? I said.

Ben offered an open hand. I would prefer not to at this point. But may I point out that your son's life depends on Emperor Paul's support.

"I assure you I am no one's lackey. My goals and the Society's goals are the same. And might I point out that my existence in Philadelphia is a secret," I said.

He gave me a reassuring nod. That's good enough for me, he said, and though it was convincing, I heard the for now that was implied. But I promised the Society that I wouldn't show you our most valuable secrets until there's consensus on your trustworthiness.

I see, I said, a bitter anger rising in my throat like bile. Shall I offer my teeth for inspection, turn out my small clothes to be sniffed, shave my head to remove the foul taint of being Russian?

Ben recoiled, his eyes flinching. Kat...you know my trust in you is absolute, but I've a promise to the Society to uphold. He paused, thoughts balancing on an uneasy scale behind his eyes. "Give it time. They'll find you as upstanding, not just upstanding, critical to achieving our goals. Return to the estate. I'll meet you after I'm finished here."

I sighed. If I couldn't trust Ben, I had no business being in the Society, or Philadelphia, so I nodded and collected my jacket. On my way out, I mulled his words, trying unsuccessfully to take solace in Ben's assertion that the members of the Society would eventually accept my membership.

They'll see me for who I am.

I just didn't know how quickly that assertion would be challenged.

Chapter Two

Philadelphia was in ascension. An amicable peace between the States and England had been forged with the Treaty of the Big Waters, as they were calling it, a feather in the tricorn hat of President Washington's third term.

The streets had a tangible energy, a vibration one felt from the folks in their tailcoats and top hats, or linen coats and fur-lined hats, bustling from one location to another. Even the dirt-smudged poorer folks, the farmers and mill workers, had a bounce in their step.

The contrast between Philadelphia and Moscow was more pronounced than the difference between a free-running stallion and a yoked workhorse. In my former life at the Russian court, though I presided over and profited from my serfs, I did not mingle with them except during those rare times they were allowed to bring grievances. Here, in the capital of this grand experiment, lines between the classes blurred to confusion.

An airship hummed overhead, its wide leather bladder with dull grey struts marking it as a transcontinental traveler. Its gondola was probably stuffed with eager immigrants with nothing but desire in their pockets.

A thick-necked merchant drove past on a sleek new steam carriage, one with the newest engines straight out of the Ottoman Empire. The harsh coal smoke had the whiff of sulfur, but the merchant probably smelled opportunity.

Which was why I'd agreed to reinvent myself in this burgeoning city, and took up the cause of like-minded thinkers, even though they had not fully accepted me in their midst.

The Transcendent Society, a small and thoroughly exclusive club, consisted of the greatest minds of the Enlightenment. The Society was dedicated to furthering mankind's struggle against tyranny and ignorance.

Benjamin Franklin was its de facto head, having formed the Society after years of correspondence, though the real breakthrough came when he developed the alchemical powder that offered quasi-immortality. By keeping the numbers in the Society small and extending their lives indefinitely, they could help shape the direction of history without risking discovery.

Exploiting a loophole in the rules, Franklin had invited me into the club. There was a great discord from some of the other members, most notably the French writer Voltaire.

I dwelled on the political intricacies of the Society until I arrived at my destination. The Franklin Estate was a sprawling building that meandered across four lots, though at least it had the decency to put up a formal front. The entrance to the estate borrowed designs from Greek and Roman architecture, including a Greek portico with two Doric columns.

The estate had been my home for the last year, a temporary arrangement until I could acquire an abode of my own. Traveling in Europe as a princess of the Russian court, I'd grown used to leaning on friends and acquaintances for lodging, but as an American citizen, I thought it my duty to be self-sufficient.

The interior was a maze of rooms which I could leisurely wander, spying previously unnoticed treasures like the prototype of a mechanical spider with spindly wire legs that I'd seen a few days ago scurrying beneath the heating furnace. I resolved to sink my frustrations on work at his printing press, which I planned to soon take over at a shop of my own, so I could learn the trials of the fourth estate.

As soon as I strolled into the atrium, I knew something was amiss. My hand fell to my hip for a non-existent rapier as I realized a man was seated in the parlor.

The man had a large nose, bulging eyes, and a protruding lower lip, and he twitched as if pulled by invisible strings. He mumbled something under his breath as I turned to address him.

Good sir, I said, may I help you? Have you wandered into the wrong house? This is the Franklin Estate. I assure you it's not a place to purchase residence.

I assure you I'm in the right house, he said with a sneering Scottish accent. Are you sure you're in the right place?

If you say, then, that you're in the right place, who are you? Speak quickly and I won't retrieve my rapier and swat your bottom out the door.

My misspent anger flew out with unexpected vigor. I tugged on the bottom of my jacket, cinching it around my chest.

The intruder's bulging eyes glanced out the picture window to the cobblestone street. When is Ben returning?

My gut seized upon hearing him called Ben rather than Temple. I instantly knew the man's identity. He was a member of the Society, one thoroughly opposed to my membership.

You're Adam Smith, I said. "I've read your book, the Wealth of Nations. It inspired me to take on a profession in this second life."

Adam's lips soured as if he'd eaten a bitter lemon. He looked like a slender gargoyle, his long, bony hands gripping his knees.

I doubt you know the meaning of work, Princess Dashkova, he said. Royalty only knows one thing, how to take. Offering nothing in return except war and poverty.

I lifted my chin. I renounced my claims when Emperor Paul exiled me.

Like a man proposing after he's gotten the woman with child. The deed was done long before you made your decision. Now you've attached yourself to the Society like a parasite, which is appropriate given your royal upbringing, he said, his gaze never resting on one spot.

A person cannot change where they were birthed, or the circumstances of their upbringing. But I heartily assure you we can change the direction of our adult lives, good sir, I said, stamping my foot on the sir.

Smith rose from the divan like an apparition, his dark blue cloak falling from his shoulders to his waist. He waved a bent knuckle in my direction.

Exactly, he said, and by those choices I will judge you.

I knew then what he meant, having been informed by Ben only an hour before that some in the Society believed I was a spy. Denials evaporated when Ben strolled into the parlor, knapsack dangling from his sturdy shoulder. He looked like an explorer returning from an expedition with a cheery whistle on his lips.

He lost the smile upon seeing the two of us at a standoff, Adam's accusing finger still hooked in my direction.

I thought the melodramatics were more Voltaire's thing, said Ben, who turned to me and winked.

Adam blinked, his lids flashing like shutters over the bulging lens of a telescope. He pulled his cloak around himself and sat on the divan as if it were made of cold stone.

I guess we should count ourselves fortunate, Katerina, that you do not carry that nimble rapier with you at all times, Ben said, nodding to my hand.

I shook the hand away from my body, it having cramped from being held at repose. I resolved to throw myself into a lather-inducing practice later, but bowed to Ben to show my restraint.

Did your mysterious item unearth more truths? I asked.

It did, he said, his brows knitted together. But it only suggested more questions, more mysteries.

Before Adam Smith could lodge a question, Ben took a moment to explain the circumstances of the investigation, telling the tale in a manner that entertained, even for me, who had experienced it firsthand.

Can you elaborate on your hypothesis? asked Adam with a wary eye cast in my direction.

Ben, who had relieved himself of the knapsack, placed his hand under his chin. I smiled despite myself and the lingering heat I'd gathered in my exchange with Adam Smith. Ben had a roguish quality that embodied the American spirit and inspired me to follow him down any path he laid our feet upon.

Ours is not the only plane of existence, he said as way of introduction. Like two soap bubbles brushing against each other, portals can form between these planes, allowing objects and creatures to pass from one to the other. These portals have been responsible for the increasing presence of magic and the creatures with which we have done battle.

How can you know this? I asked.

Conjecture, he said, and then nodded towards Adam. And a few facts that will currently remain unspoken.

Another time I might have argued with Ben, but Adam Smith's presence and our earlier conversation weighed heavily on my mind. I kept my face as unreadable as possible.

Then we should be rid of her, said Adam, so we can continue this conversation in earnest. These incidents seem to be coming more frequently, which puts a great emphasis on our need to understand them, so we may act accordingly. He looked to me. You are dismissed, madam.

Ben stepped between us before I could launch a hailstorm of invectives. I had a particularly nasty Russian insult involving a cuckold and two suckling pigs readied for launch.

Adam, I know you are opposed to her membership in the Society, but we need Katerina. We have flailed thus far at this mystery without much to show for our efforts. She has a peerless mind and does not brook sloppiness. Why, during our investigation at the Coopers, it was she who discovered that this Theodore was not capable of even understanding that his memory had been taken. Which again suggests that its origin is magical in nature rather than one of physical damage.

Adam shifted on his rear, face contorting through various unattractive poses.

Ben continued with palms towards the Scottish economist. I must show her how we can detect this magic, so she might help us devise a trap that might discover its root.

Hmmm...

None of the others are here, said Ben. It's only the three of us, and events seem to be quickening.

I suppose we must then, said Adam. But I shall keep my eye on you, Princess. If you show the slightest indication that you are not who you say you are, we shall withdraw our protection.

I am your humble servant, I said. I will endeavor to earn your trust.

Adam offered a reluctant smile that he barely bothered to maintain for more than a breath.

Well, then. Ben clapped his hands softly. Let us show Katerina our greatest find.

The knapsack sagged when Ben lifted it by the straps. A quick twist of the fingers released the buttons. Ben sunk his hand into the darkness.

His attention focused on the object in the knapsack. He'd drawn quite serious only moments before, but I knew by the way he prepared to exalt what he had in his grasp that it was an invention of some kind. Whenever Ben explained an invention, whether his or another's that he admired, he displayed an effervescence that bordered on childlike.

While I was prepared for many things, I was not prepared for the object to be a silvery metal gauntlet of unknown design. The style was nothing with which I was accustomed.

Gazing upon it churned my stomach, making me want to look away. I felt dizzy and lightheaded despite standing on two solid feet.

Rather than interlocking steel links, or overlapping plates, the gauntlet was made of one solid piece. The cyclopean design held a chunk of the blackest night on the back. It was a smooth obsidian stone that grossly reflected my visage when I leaned closer.

What does it do besides give me a gut-shot of the barrel fever? I asked.

As far as we can tell, it detects the presence of magic, though I have a suspicion that's not its only function, said Ben.

Was there magic at the Coopers? I asked.

A lingering residue, said Ben. Which is why I suspect a portal. The signature began and ended inside the house.

Why would someone erase the memories of a customs agent? asked Adam.

Maybe not erased, but stolen, I said.

I caught Adam's surprised agreement, though he quickly hid it behind an impeccable scowl.

What would a magical being want with Theodore's memories? asked Ben. I can't think of anything more boring than a customs agent. Theirs is the monotonous task of accounting the comings and goings of industry through the port. This Theodore Cooper would know nothing of the important workings of government, no secrets to lay bare.

I agreed with Ben, though something tugged at my thoughts. Before my exile, I'd spent a dozen years as the director of the Russian Academy of Science. I'd been given the position after the ineptitude of the previous holder. The former director never bothered with the bureaucratic necessities that kept an organization from falling into chaos, and it'd been my diligence that had elevated the academy to its current glory.

Bureaucracy, though unloved, has purpose, I said. Maybe there is some clue within his responsibilities.

What if there are others? asked Adam suddenly.

The three of us pondered his question in silence.

How would we know? I asked. Can that gauntlet detect magic from across the city?

Ben shook his head. Only as close as a driver to a horse tail.

Can you lean on your connections in the government to inquire about other incidents? asked Adam.

Under my grandson's name, I have less, but enough to get us an answer, said Ben.

Then I'll take to the docks and spend time watching the comings and goings of goods, said Adam Smith. Much can be learned about a city's economics by its trade.

I could take that gauntlet and canvas the city, I offered, wanting to contribute to the investigation. A block by block review might uncover more instances. Maybe the custom agent's loss was merely coincidence and had nothing to do with his government station.

Adam Smith shook a fist in my direction. You'd like to get your hands on our most prized possession. Spittle formed at the corner of his lips. If we gave that to you, we'd never see you again, and you'd hand it over to our enemies in Russia.

Russia is not the enemy of America, I said, my voice rising. I've no love for the current emperor—he's a tyrant and a fool—but Russia deserves a place on the world's stage.

Always about pride with you Russians, said Smith. Pride's a dangerous lure to the weak of mind.

I looked to Ben for support, expecting him to back me, but when I saw the deep wrinkles around his mouth and eyes and the hunched brow, I knew there was more they weren't telling me.

How many secrets are you keeping from me? I asked.

Not really keeping from you, said Ben. Word will get out eventually, but something's happening in Russia. We're not even sure that the emperor is in charge anymore. Our sources in Moscow have disappeared, the nobles are silent, the serfs terrified. What information we do receive appears written by madmen, though given the strange occurrences around here, it might be this plague of magic has a stronger hold in Russia.

A cold and bony hand seized around my heart. My son Pavel was a member of the emperor's court, and I had not received a letter from him in a few months. It'd been a heavy winter and letters might have been delayed, but they should have arrived by now. This news and the absence of communication from my son left me with dark thoughts.

Suddenly, Ben was beside me, while Smith left the room, glancing ominously in my direction before he disappeared through a door. Ben placed a warm hand on my forearm, giving it a little squeeze. He smelled like pine needles and hearth fires. I wanted to lean against him.

I know this comes as troubling news, said Ben. And I'm afraid I must impinge upon your wounded heart once again. Until the source of the recent events can be resolved, you cannot stay at the estate. There are other secrets you are not privy to, and your presence in the house will make it impossible to keep them from you.

The bony hand around my heart cinched tighter. Then where am I to live?

I own a house on the south side of Market Street. The previous resident and I had a disagreement so she no longer lives there and I haven't been able or wanted to rent it out since then. It's a wonderful place. You'll love the bath, it has no equal in the known world, he said.

I don't care for baths, I said.

I'm sorry, Kat. It has to be this way right now. While we sort this out, which will happen sooner rather than later, I've taken the liberty of setting up the printing shop. It's only a few blocks from here, he said, patting my hand like a father with his wayward child. I hired some porters to move your things to the new place. You should find everything you need.

He handed me an envelope with his seal stamped into the red wax. On the outside in a patient script was the address.

I am to be cast out of the Society?

He shook his head, features cast into an appropriately sympathetic frown. A momentary delay.

Well, then, I said, shivering despite the warmth of the room.

Kat, I know you can still help us. Use that prodigious mind of yours and help us figure out this mystery. It'll go a long way towards assuaging the doubts of the Society, he said.

I pulled away, thoughts whirling through my head like a windstorm.

I must take a walk to clear my head, I said, marching towards the front door.

When you return, I'll give you a tour of your new business and home, said Ben with a hopeful smile.

The door closed harder than I wanted, the abrupt bang like a gunshot, leaving me to cringe. I didn't want Ben to get the impression that I wasn't appreciative of his defense and the lodging. Truthfully, I had much to be thankful for in the house of Ben Franklin. I could scarcely complain about the treatment I'd received from Ben, especially given the circumstances.

It wasn't the banishment from the estate that had left me deep in my thoughts. It was what had been said before, about Russia and the blooming of magic in my birthplace. The implications were varied and wide, and gave me great worries for the safety of my son.

But more importantly, this news troubled me for one simple fact.

I was a Russian spy.

Chapter Three

It'd never been my intention to become a spy for the emperor of Russia. I'd thought my existence in Philadelphia a secret until a month ago.

While visiting the Camden yards across the Delaware River to watch the military airships take flight over the ocean in the predawn sky, I'd been standing along the stacked stone wall that kept the river behind me at bay. A man had strolled up and though I'd been aware of him, I had expected him to pass without comment.

When he said my full name, the one they announced at court, I knew I'd been found. He made it known that he carried a repeating pistol and that if I didn't nod in all the right places, he would dump my lifeless body into the river. After that, he explained how my cooperation would keep my son Pavel alive. When I asked what kind of information he was looking for, the spymaster didn't elaborate, stating that he wanted to know everything.

I regretted that I hadn't taken this information straight to Ben and the Society. I'd thought that I could handle the problem quickly, eliminating the spymaster and showing my worth to the Society, rather than weighing them down with new problems.

I began plotting my escape the moment the spymaster left. I resolved to send a letter to Pavel at the same time I eliminated the spymaster, so my son could escape and come to America. If Emperor Paul's reign was in question and unknown forces were at work, my plan was untenable.

Elimination of the spymaster would be my first priority. A letter would be sent to Pavel, but I couldn't wait for confirmation that it'd arrived, or that he'd fled to safety.

While I knew where the spymaster lived—it'd taken me the last few months to learn the location—a second complication waited. The spymaster had warned me that two assassins lurked in the city and if I tried to move on him, or told anyone about the arrangement, they would eliminate me and those around me for whom I cared for.

As I made my way to my new home to retrieve my rapier and pistol, I formulated a plan to extricate myself from the odorous employ of said spymaster. Upon reaching my destination, I found myself stymied by a strange door. Instead of a wrought iron door handle, a brass plate with three rows of buttons awaited.

Using the ivory handled knife in my jacket, I sliced open the envelope Ben had given me at the estate. The contents explained the method of entry and a few other notes, including partially incomprehensible instructions regarding the bath. I punched the buttons in the order suggested in the letter and gained entry to my new abode.

The furnishings inside were modest, local make of sturdy oak material. I folded the letter into a square and tucked it into the top drawer of the solid cherry armoire in the corner of the room. My rapier and dueling pistol rested on the dull green divan against the far wall, while the chests that held my clothes were arrayed in the center.

From the front room, I could see a cellar door, stairs going up to a second floor, and two other rooms on my level: a bath and a kitchen. Exploration would have to come at a later time, when my existence wasn't being threatened. I changed outfits and collected my weapons before leaving the house.

The spymaster had taken up residence on the third floor of a low-rent apartment in the Southwerk area, near the bawdy houses. He'd picked a particularly defensible location. The only way up to his place was a narrow staircase that went up the side of the building and was in view of the rest of the street.

I had to assume the assassins lived within a stone's throw of the spy-master, a man whose name I had yet to uncover, because, as he'd said, they would know if I tried to come for him.

Finding the spymaster hadn't been that difficult. His English dripped with a Moscow accent. I canvassed the local grocers, asking if any foreigners bought excessive amounts of cabbage, a staple of the Moscow diet. When I'd lived in the capital, my Muscovite relatives often served cabbage-based soups for three meals a day. The only way to tell the difference between them was by the quality of meat, or lack thereof, since breakfast was served cold and with only vegetables.

I told the grocer, when I found the one the spymaster visited, that I was a relative from his homeland wanting to surprise him so he wouldn't inform the spymaster of my presence. Following him back to his apartment without being noticed was difficult. Then in my free time, I watched the apartment, noting the spymaster's comings and goings, hoping to get a glimpse of the assassins.

My lack of success with identifying them was the only thing staying my hand. At this point, I hoped that the spymaster had fabricated them to keep me at bay.

When I reached Southwerk, the late afternoon sky was streaked with bold clouds building into high castles from the sea. A fast moving airship soared northward, headed towards New York, its engine’s noise lost to the gathering winds.

Sailors from the port, probably from the slew of Dutch West India ships that had arrived this morning, filled Ram Cat Alley. Tongues wagged vigorously, turning the street into an otherworldly bazaar. Flint boys moved along the sidewalks, igniting the gas lamps that would give the city a warm evening glow.

The sailors, on their way to the street's many brothels, normally might have noticed me, but I'd hid my hair underneath a wide floppy hat and my womanly shape beneath a man's jacket and trousers. A dark cotton cloak hung from my shoulders, adding to the flair of mystery. It was more likely I'd be challenged to a duel based on the weapons at my hips than groped about my womanly parts.

The back of the spymaster's apartment overlooked Ram Cat Alley. If he looked out its single window, he would see me striding up the street while black steam carriages deposited Senators and the wealthier residents of the city at the Magdelen House, the highest caliber of the brothels.

What I needed to make my assault on the spymaster's apartment was a distraction. Not just any distraction would do. I needed something that would keep the spymaster's attention on the street below, but also draw the notice of the two assassins, assuming they existed.

When I decided on my plan, I moved right away towards a group of drunken sailors discussing the next tavern in which to spend their coin in slurred Dutch. Apple red noses announced the extent of their condition. Their captain probably hoped they would find a nice gutter to pass out in rather than return to the ship.

To my good fortune, a second band of sailors, English by their absurdly formal red coats with a pound of brass buttons glittering from sleeves and lapels, strolled out from the Maiden's Flower, its raucous music contrasting with their stolid features.

Slipping amid the Dutch, I waited until the English were passing and levered a particularly oblivious Dutch sailor into their path with the tip of my rapier. The Englishman barked back at the yellow-toothed Dutchman, which pulled the others together as if a rope had been cinched around both groups.

Watch yer bloody steps, hissed the Dutch sailor.

Unless you don't want to pump your bellows much longer, keep talking, said the Englishman.

Sailors from both sides made fists, or pulled leather belts to wrap around their hands. The sadistic ones had a piece of bolt iron to shove between their knuckles so when they hit a man they'd gouge out his flesh.

With an easy toss, I launched a few coins into their midst, aiming for the places between the two sides. The few who noticed bent over to retrieve the coins, knocking heads and elbows with the opposing. Growls and curses followed the scramble for lost monies.

The fight began without more prodding, when Yellow-teeth threw a right hook into the Englishman's jaw. After a long trip, sailors had an itch to tussle. The Englishman returned a blow to the midsection. Everything after that was pure chaos.

Before I got caught in the fight, I slipped into the alleyway, catching a sharp elbow to the ribs as punishment.

The fight drew the attention of Ram Cat Alley. Keeping to the shadows, I pulled my pistol and shot out the window of the Magdelen House. Glass exploded into the street, releasing the sounds of women screaming. Guards in buckskin coats with heavy wooden truncheons ran out of the high-class establishment, joining the melee in progress. I reloaded my weapon and shot out another window down the street for good measure.

Blown whistles announced the arrival of the city constables. With the seeds of chaos sown widely, I placed another shot in my pistol, snapped the frizzen into place, and moved quickly to the spymaster's apartment, hoping the noise from the battle would hide the squeak of warped wood as I climbed the steps.

At the landing, I pulled out the worn leather case that held my picks. The lock fell to my touch.

With pistol in right hand and rapier in left, I entered the apartment. It was dim inside, as the light was filtered by the linen curtains. Shadows hid everywhere. The shroud of a recently doused candle filled the air.

A flicker of movement flew through the doorway leading to another room. Ducking behind the couch, I crouched on one knee and rested my pistol on the velvet armrest.

By the blazes, I'd hoped to get a jump on him. I'd have to lure him out of the back room now.

The fighting outside hid everything but my breathing. It sounded like a steam engine in my ears. I thought I heard a foot-scuff in the other room and jerked my head to the right to listen without compromising my sightline.

Either he'd known I was coming, or heard me at the locks. A sliver of light shone through the gap of the slightly open door. I was trapped if the assassins had seen me.

I had a decision to make. If he had a weapon, he could wait until the others arrived. If he was unarmed, then waiting was in my favor since I held the only exit from the tiny apartment.

Crouching in a bent forward stance, my knees ached, but I was too bell-fired to care. The details of the apartment drew in as my eyes adjusted to the dim. A dog-eared book sat on a spartan table; I was doubtful that it was a Bible. A pair of leather boots rested in the corner next to a long musket rifle without a bayonet.

Clearly, by the silence, he'd decided waiting was his better option. I needed to goose him from his position, or determine if I were the one in danger.

I'm afraid I can't let you leave alive unless you're willing to give yourself up to me, I called out.

I ducked lower when I heard a click. The shouts and continued whistles outside formed the backdrop to our standoff. I heard more clicks: the lever of a pistol falling into place, or maybe a lock. Then I heard something that sounded like wind, though I knew that room had no windows.

Paul isn't the emperor anymore, I said, keeping my gaze roving around the room. He's been deposed. You've no one to spy for anymore.

I regretted starting the riot outside. I couldn't hear enough to distinguish my foe. Two men, one with a deep voice, shouted at each other beneath the spymaster's window. One of them was demanding payment for damages. I ignored them and concentrated on what was going on beneath the shouts, the scraping of wood on wood, the soft pad of footsteps.

Was my adversary about to launch himself into an all-out assault on my position behind the couch, firing a pistol at close range? Did he possess some other weapon that would make my stand a foolish one?

My imagination worked against me, the memory of the strange gauntlet fresh in my mind. If we possessed simple trinkets that detected the presence of magic, maybe they held worse—things that could ignite flesh or cause a man to go mad.

The silence goaded me into action. I crept forward, keeping my pistol on the open door, wishing my weapon had more than one shot. I vowed to acquire a repeating pistol after the encounter, should I survive.

Standing straight, I pressed myself against the wall, leaning my ear in the direction of the open door, hoping to catch a sound that might betray his location. The only thing I could hear was the two men below, still arguing, though the din of battle had lessened.

One, two, I counted, then burst around the corner, aiming my pistol into each corner. The bedroom was empty. A yellow-stained mattress lay in the corner, not a space beneath it to hide.

I spun around, and then again. Nothing. He wasn't in the room. Nothing was in the room except the mattress.

Suddenly the room felt unbearably warm, like a flash fever, and then it was gone. I wiped my forehead with the back of my hand.

Had I imagined the noises? Did he possess something that would spirit him away from this location?

My gut churned with the implications.

Keeping my weapons at the ready, I poked the mattress with the toe of my boot. The thin bedding held no secrets.

I returned to the other room. The book on the table was a collection of Slavic tales, collected and preserved for history. The inner page marked it as a product of the Russian Academy. I'd headed the academy until my exile, but I didn't remember commissioning this tome, which meant it'd probably come after.

A brief examination of the room left me with the impression that the spymaster did not leave except to retrieve more supplies. A pot of soup sat on the small stove, next to a few logs. The soup stunk of cabbage.

Beneath the table was a privy bucket. I left it in its place.

The musket leaning against the wall was a local make, a relic of the American Revolution. The Continental Army now used the newest repeating rifles.

Frustrated that the spymaster had somehow escaped me, I left the apartment, keeping my weapons drawn as I went down the squeaky steps. Back on the street, I took one long look in both directions before placing the rapier and pistol back in their holders.

Reluctantly, I made my way towards the Franklin Estate. Until the business with the Russian spymaster was concluded, I'd have to maintain a wary guard.

Chapter Four

Before I reached the estate, a black steam carriage with a government eagle crest on the door skidded to a stop in the street right near me. It was the newest design, and it allowed the driver to stay in the front of the carriage, out of the elements. My palm rested on the butt of my pistol.

A nearby gas lamp reflected against the window of the carriage. I squinted, hoping to see the driver, when the side door opened wide, revealing that scamp, Benjamin Franklin.

His winsome smile held none of the dark discussions we'd endured at the estate with Adam Smith. I saw no one else in the carriage.

Climb in, my dear Kat, he said. I'll explain along the way.

The steam carriage lurched forward as soon as my rear touched the stitched cushion. He sped away, heading east on Market Street, towards the Delaware River.

What luck that I found you, he said. Our dear friend, Smith, had left for errands when word arrived.

His words tumbled around in my head as I studied the interior. I was familiar with most steam carriage designs, but not one with such a strange dashboard.

What are all these buttons for? I asked.

Buttons? Don't mind them. A gift from a friend. He waved his hand dismissively, barely keeping his eyes on the road while he dodged around horse-drawn wagons and pedestrians. What matters is that we have a pattern.

I rested the tip of my forefinger on one of the buttons. So I can press this one?

His eyes widened in alarm. By the blazes, no!

What would it do? I asked.

"Djata gave me a chart, but I left it at the estate. For right now, just assume they could do anything," he said.

Then what's the steam carriage for? I asked.

Djata was a fellow inventor who worked on the other side of town. I hated to be a pest, but I was feeling sorely left out.

Events, happenings. Things. I don't know. I asked him to make me a steam carriage that would be prepared for anything, he said. This is it.

As Ben was talking, without taking his eyes off me, he swerved around a farmer walking his horse on the right side of the street. My fingers dug into the cushion as I tried to anchor myself in place.

Once we'd settled back onto our side, he raised a sympathetic eyebrow. You're miffed about what happened earlier?

"Miffed? I can't see how you might have gotten that impression, I said. I believe last we spoke you called me a spy."

I gave Ben my most withering stare, feeling no regret in doing so. While it was true that I had been a spy the last few months, it'd been under duress, rather than a choice of free will. This kept my conscience clear despite the circumstances.

It was Adam that called you a spy, he said.

"Well, you've been keeping secrets."

A sigh filtered out of Ben's nostrils as he slowed the steam carriage. We had reached the dock district of the city. A three-masted ship moved languidly down the river in the reflected glow of the evening gas lamps, the shouts of the sailors faintly rumbled against the glass.

I cannot change the past, said Ben, but I can try to rectify the future.

What was it that you were saying before about word coming in? I asked.

We have another victim, he said with unhealthy glee.

A little dark, aren't we? I mocked.

He winked. I have to say, this conundrum pleases me. I do enjoy a good puzzle.

Our victim is a dockworker? I asked, getting out of the steam carriage.

No, he said, grabbing a familiar sagging knapsack from the back. I'll explain on the way over. We're headed to the Camden Yards.

We took the ferry, a flat ship with a steam engine driving a paddle. The caress of dirty, brown water slid past while the lantern rocked with the surges of the current. The river was much colder than the city, and I listened to Ben's explanation with my arms cinched around my chest, smelling the sea air tainting the wind.

Another victim had been found without his recent memories. He'd been clinging to a log near the rough waters right before the Delaware turned into the Atlantic Ocean. A fishing boat had found him only because they'd heard his weak cries and thought him a seal separated from its mother. The first mate had been prepared to club the man until he'd realized it wasn't a seal.

The man was Augustus Tundlelittle, the Head of Immigration for the airship port. His job was to record the airships, passengers, and ports of call.

He was another government bureaucrat with little power and no influence. I, along with Ben, knew that it was probably significant, just not why.

We arrived and went directly to the Office of Immigration building. It was a modest two story with a brick front that sat off the main tarmac where the airships landed and took off. The large area was empty of airships at the moment, though a pair of steam carriages was moving one out of the hanger by pulling it along on wires, probably for a late flight across the ocean. The hangers were built from massive timbers hauled from the deep Pennsylvania forest.

Further south of our location, at the military's airship yard, a silvery craft had taken flight, the low clouds threatening to swallow it. Before following Ben inside, I looked back across the river—the gas lamps gave the city a brassy glow.

A thin shivering man wrapped in blankets and with hair that looked like a drowned rat was the first thing we saw. He had scrapes and bruises across his face. A bandage was wrapped around his head. The room smelled like wet fur. A curious rope was tied around the blankets, keeping him in a straight-backed chair.

Augustus Tundlelittle looked to us with that vacant gaze that I'd seen in Theodore Cooper. He looked like a prisoner in his own head, the tensed eyebrows serving as his fists beating against the thick iron bars of his mind.

A second man, in a dark green linen jacket, appeared from the next room. He was reasonably handsome, except for a patch of cribbage face on each cheek, giving him a rugged look.

Temple Franklin, I assume? he asked. I greatly admired your grandfather, sir. He was the First American. I'm Samuel Redford, Mr. Tundlelittle's assistant.

True to his part, Ben gave a hesitant acknowledgement of the sentiment. Your condolences are appreciated. Is this Augustus?

A little beat up, but yes, it's him in form, though I question if he's here in spirit, said Samuel. He seems to know where he's at most of the time, but has tried to drown himself twice since his rescue.

Augustus' assistant had the same look that Theodore's wife had had on her face. I'd seen it on many a middle-aged child who had to watch their parent descend into the confused twilight of old age.

This thought caught in my mental nets and I tried to fish it out, but then Samuel stepped forward, giving a deep bow.

And who might this lovely lady be? he asked with a smile tugging on his lips.

Katerina Carmontelle, I said, returning the bow with a curtsey.

Is this the latest fashion in France? he asked.

I am dressed for business, which I believe we should return to, I replied.

His easy manner bothered me. What was a moderately charming fellow doing as an assistant to Augustus Tundlelittle? Was I just