Turnkey (The Gaslight Volumes of Will Pocket Book 1) by Lori Williams, Christopher Dunkle

sounds so...weak-willed. Besides, I just came in to search
for my bottle.”
    “So you are a
searcher?”
    “I'm Will Pocket.”
    She smiled and
daintily shook my hand.
    “Mister Pocket.”
    Kitt's hand was
next.
    “And I'm Kitt
Sunner.”
    “Mister Sunner.”
    “Just Kitt.”
    “Mister Kitt,
then.”
    “Still too
formal.”
    “All right,
Kitt-Kitt.”
    “Oh my...”
    I laughed and
suddenly realized that I couldn't remember the last time I had had such
amusement and, well, fun amongst complete strangers. I think the trick about
people that become not-strangers in your life is that when they enter your
life, they don't appear very stranger-like to begin with.
    Strange.
    However, I was
still sane enough not to hang around an abandoned building with a street thief
and a hostess that was currently lingering somewhere between shut-in and
jostled property.
    “Well,” I said,
standing and finishing my last scone. “Thank you very much for the meal. Quite
tasty.”
    “Thank you, thank
you,” she said. Then suddenly, her eyes changed to suspicion. “You're not
leaving, are you?”
    “Oh...well...it is late.”
    “So stay here.”
    “I don't want to
bother.”
    “It's more bother
to leave. Sounds like rain.”
    “Yup,” Kitt added.
“It's probably still coming down. Besides, don't try your luck. You think you
can find another free magic French inn?”
    “I thought you
weren't listening to—”
    “Don't you like it
here?” the Doll asked.
    “Sure,” I said.
    “Is it me?”
    “Of course not.”
    “Is it him?”
    Kitt made a silly
frown. I elbowed him.
    “No. I mean, he
did take off with my bottle, threw it through a window, and stole my wallet...”
    “Empty wallet,”
Kitt said.
    “ Empty wallet!”
the Doll repeated, trying to establish camaraderie, I think.
    I was cornered.
And the place was dry. And warm. With jam.
    “Are there beds?”
I asked.
    “I don't know,”
she said.
    “Where do you
sleep?” Kitt asked her.
    “Where you found
me,” she said, as if it was the most commonly-known fact in existence.
    “All right,” I
said, dropping back onto the stool. “I'll stay.”
    “Excellent!” The
Doll celebrated with a firm screwing on of the jam jar lid.
    “Excellent...” I
repeated quietly to myself.
    As I fell asleep
that night, tucked into my overcoat with a bag of rotting and therefore quite
soft potatoes propped behind my head, I realized that neither I nor Kitt had
ever asked for her name, if she even had one. Her last words to us before
leaving for the glass case were “Dolly bids you a good night!”
    Dolly...
    There seemed
something significant about it, something I feel that I almost grasped, but
then I fell asleep.
    I woke up the next
morning...late...to the sound of Kitt banging around at the other end of the
room. I was surprised...and a little impressed. I half-expected him to take off
in the night with as much as he could carry. I got up, attempted to stretch the
soreness from my body, and yawned.
    “Morning Kitt,” I
said, scratching my head. “How are you?”
    “Morning Pocket,”
he replied. I glanced over his shoulder and noticed he was stuffing clocks into
a bag. Sigh. I should have figured as much. Kitt noticed me looking and
grinned.
    “I found a bag.”
    “I see that.”
    He nodded and
returned to his plundering. I decided not to get involved. If I had taken to
that philosophy sooner, I wouldn't be in this situation in the first place.
Still...
    “Kitt, I don't
want you to take these things.”
    “Well, if it
helps, I'm not really taking anything yet. I'm just finding. Finding clocks.
And I'm stuffing. Stuffing a bag. And later I will be carrying. Carrying a bag,
and—“
    My voice got
harder. “Kitt. I'm serious. Stop.”
    He dropped the act
and frowned at me. I think he was a little hurt at the tone.
    “I don't
understand,” he said. “Why, suddenly—“
    “Because, you
know. Her. ”
    “What?”
    “Because this
place isn't abandoned anymore. There