ignored me and praised Hargreaves, earning him a look full of vitriol . “Don’t knock it, you’ve already got the eye patch.”
Through a fit of giggles, I managed to step in with Auntie, and together, the three of us ladies undid the bonds. There were altogether too many people on the bridge now, and the girl we freed didn’t even try to escape.
She just tumbled out of the bundle, all dense jumpers, violently orange hair and a multitude of scarves. She sat there on the deck like a broken doll, with her enormous boots peeking out of a beribboned hem.
“Hello,” Albion said, kneeling in front of her. His smile was kind, though it was having trouble penetrating Kitty Desperado’s pout. “I’m not drunk now. How did you steal my ship?”
While Albion was talking with Kitty, Blair and I turned towards the Inspector, who seemed out of sorts. She was dusting herself off, constantly stopping and picking at a rip here and there, as if she didn’t see the point. I sighed.
“There’s a pile of clothes in the hold nobody knows what to do with, and a cleaning steamer in the boiler room. You can take your pick from those,” I supplied. “Mind, it’s mostly men’s wear.”
“Those would be easier to move in,” She said appreciatively. She leaned on my steering wheel to pick at a rip near her knee. “I see you are expecting me to stay. I suppose it is inevitable, if we are to solve the mystery of Westminster and recover your Captain Samuel.”
“You certainly came in useful,” I agreed reluctantly. This Hargreaves was making herself far more at home than I was comfortable with. She also had the legs off a giraffe, something I was seriously uncomfortable with.
“We will discuss the matter at length with the Captain. I expect some sort of alliance can be reached?” she said.
The Inspector gave me a once-over disturbingly like a frisking. A nerve in my forehead began to twitch unbecomingly.
At that point, Albion straightened up, with the orange girl clinging to his elbow.
His goggles were back up, and the girl was staring up at him with wide eyes.
“Ladies? This is Kitty Desperado.”
The story of Kitty Desperado was merely an exceptional one- meaning, it was one we had heard hundreds of times scouring the bars of the Hook . She was one of a faceless multitude orphaned during the last Great War. Then only a babe in arms, a Welsh relief corporal had nearly tripped over her, nestled in the debris of a bombed Glasgow hotel, clothed in a pile of evening gowns and hangers.
Dropped from one of the still new Eastern Conglomerate dirigibles, steamcraft bombs left flesh melted off bone, pillars warped and broken in its wake.
The closet and room had taken the brunt of the attack, but a mother’s careful wrapping had saved the child, wound in a dress meant to keep a lady protected near searing hot engines. These costly thermal materials were just then coming into fashion, driven by a fiercely progressive and practical new London femininity.
Near as the corporal could figure, the girl had been abandoned there not long before the bombing, along with several ready milk bottles and a bell looped round her wrist to attract attention.
It was a common enough tale. Like as not, the girl was the secret fruit of some society debutante and a handsome, transitory soldier, hidden away in the interests of the aristocracy hiding out in Scotland’s country manors.
The tenant of the room had used a false name, borrowed from a popular series of propaganda pictures playing at the time, about a Spanish thief turned spy for the Western Partnership.
The name of the thief had been Kitty Desperado.
The Great
Through a fit of giggles, I managed to step in with Auntie, and together, the three of us ladies undid the bonds. There were altogether too many people on the bridge now, and the girl we freed didn’t even try to escape.
She just tumbled out of the bundle, all dense jumpers, violently orange hair and a multitude of scarves. She sat there on the deck like a broken doll, with her enormous boots peeking out of a beribboned hem.
“Hello,” Albion said, kneeling in front of her. His smile was kind, though it was having trouble penetrating Kitty Desperado’s pout. “I’m not drunk now. How did you steal my ship?”
While Albion was talking with Kitty, Blair and I turned towards the Inspector, who seemed out of sorts. She was dusting herself off, constantly stopping and picking at a rip here and there, as if she didn’t see the point. I sighed.
“There’s a pile of clothes in the hold nobody knows what to do with, and a cleaning steamer in the boiler room. You can take your pick from those,” I supplied. “Mind, it’s mostly men’s wear.”
“Those would be easier to move in,” She said appreciatively. She leaned on my steering wheel to pick at a rip near her knee. “I see you are expecting me to stay. I suppose it is inevitable, if we are to solve the mystery of Westminster and recover your Captain Samuel.”
“You certainly came in useful,” I agreed reluctantly. This Hargreaves was making herself far more at home than I was comfortable with. She also had the legs off a giraffe, something I was seriously uncomfortable with.
“We will discuss the matter at length with the Captain. I expect some sort of alliance can be reached?” she said.
The Inspector gave me a once-over disturbingly like a frisking. A nerve in my forehead began to twitch unbecomingly.
At that point, Albion straightened up, with the orange girl clinging to his elbow.
His goggles were back up, and the girl was staring up at him with wide eyes.
“Ladies? This is Kitty Desperado.”
The story of Kitty Desperado was merely an exceptional one- meaning, it was one we had heard hundreds of times scouring the bars of the Hook . She was one of a faceless multitude orphaned during the last Great War. Then only a babe in arms, a Welsh relief corporal had nearly tripped over her, nestled in the debris of a bombed Glasgow hotel, clothed in a pile of evening gowns and hangers.
Dropped from one of the still new Eastern Conglomerate dirigibles, steamcraft bombs left flesh melted off bone, pillars warped and broken in its wake.
The closet and room had taken the brunt of the attack, but a mother’s careful wrapping had saved the child, wound in a dress meant to keep a lady protected near searing hot engines. These costly thermal materials were just then coming into fashion, driven by a fiercely progressive and practical new London femininity.
Near as the corporal could figure, the girl had been abandoned there not long before the bombing, along with several ready milk bottles and a bell looped round her wrist to attract attention.
It was a common enough tale. Like as not, the girl was the secret fruit of some society debutante and a handsome, transitory soldier, hidden away in the interests of the aristocracy hiding out in Scotland’s country manors.
The tenant of the room had used a false name, borrowed from a popular series of propaganda pictures playing at the time, about a Spanish thief turned spy for the Western Partnership.
The name of the thief had been Kitty Desperado.
The Great
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