Chapter Two
The next few weeks went by in a flurry of activity. Vic worked with her father to arrange for the letters to go out, requesting the service of certain renowned tradesmen. Vic was amazed that letters went to the Americas and, one in particular, to Germany. She had heard great things about Bram Schmitt, the up and coming German inventor. Letters had already begun to arrive with answers, and she was pleased when he was among those who had accepted.
Vic had her own preparations to make for the expedition. Three years ago, at sixteen, she’d garnered the attention of a local Master Tinker. He’d taken her under his wing, and at first, it had been something she was proud of. Until she began to work with him, that is. Master Frederick was a drunk, and a sordid one at that. He could be found most days passed out in his shop, a bottle of whiskey tucked under his arm with his snoring rattling the window panes.
An opportunity that started off as an honor turned into Vic running the entire machine shop. Master Frederick’s patrons came because they knew she could fix their machines. She did her job, and she did it well. While Master Frederick had never taught her the things she had expected, she had learned so much more. Running a tinker’s shop was the greatest experience, even if it took her a while before she was running it well. It helped that the Tinker Shop was a short ten-minute walk from her home.
Vic opened the door to Fred’s Tinkering and immediately wrinkled her nose. The smell of whiskey and stale musk were heavy on the air. The scent of urine also permeated the shop, a rather terrible habit of the Master Tinker. She had heard he had once been the greatest Tinker London had ever seen. She was not quite sure where that man went, but the lump of flesh currently dry heaving over a bucket certainly was not him.
“Master Frederick,” Vic spoke. “Are you well?”
“You’re late,” he groaned, waving his hand at the work table against the wall. There were various machines piled up: a typewriter, a steam-powered horn, and some other machine she had not seen before.
“That is what I am here to discuss with you,” Vic started, keeping far away from Master Frederick as he heaved again. She had been the target of his vomit one too many times. She had no desire to repeat the event.
“Just get to work, girl. The patrons do not pay you to talk.”
Vic frowned down at him, her anger getting the better of her. No, the patrons did not pay her to talk. In fact, they did not pay her at all. Master Frederick paid her a measly salary when he felt like it, and only if he did not piss it away on whiskey and the brothel. She straightened her spine and lifted her chin.
“No.”
Master Frederick stopped heaving long enough to look at Vic. His cheeks were ruddy, and sweat was coating his skin and soaking into his clothing. His hair hung in strings across his forehead, dirty and unkempt. She was not sure when the last time he had bathed himself was, but the smell told her it had been far too long.
“What do you mean ‘no’?” he growled. “I don’t pay you to stand around and look pathetic.”
“I am afraid I have to take my leave from my position, Master Frederick. My father’s expedition had been funded, and I have been signed on as the Master Tinker.” Vic shifted in annoyance, her leg giving off a small puff of steam at the movement. His eyes fell to the leg with a sneer.
“You’re a cripple and a woman. What in the devil would make them think you would make a good Tinker?”
Vic raised her chin impossibly high. Master Frederick was often rude when he had been drinking, and it seemed this time was no different. It was a wonder he was ever sober enough to sign her on as his apprentice. The old fool would have gone under long before if he had not done her that service.
“I believe I have proved my worth during my time here, Master Frederick. I am taking the opportunity presented to me. I thought it prudent to inform you I would no longer be coming into the shop to do your work.”
“Your job won’t be waiting when you come back,” he sneered before heaving into the bucket again. Once he caught his breath, he talked into the bucket, his voice a muffled echo. “I can find any other incompetent fool to take your place.”
Vic nodded her head.
“It is a shame you feel that way, Master Frederick. I will take my leave now.” She turned towards the door, but her eyes fell on the steam-powered horn. “The bell is cracked,” she pointed out, a courtesy. The crack was miniscule, hardly apparent in the right light. With his eyes seeing double, it was doubtful he would find it. If it went unfixed, the horn would have a fuzzy sound when played.
“Good riddance.” He dropped the bucket and slouched down on the floor. He pulled the bottle of whiskey towards him and took a long swig. Vic sighed. Some things never changed. It was likely he would not remember the conversation tomorrow. She grabbed a paper and pen from the workbench and scratched out a note for when he was sober again. She included the fix of the horn. Then she pushed through the door and breathed in air that was blessedly free from the smell of human disappointment.
London was not the cleanest city, the smell of horse droppings and steam coating your tongue long before you ever got a breath of clean air, but it was home. And Vic would be leaving it for the better part of eight months. She was excited for the adventure, and at the same time, she would miss the Queen’s land dearly.
Since Vic would be leaving the city for so long, she thought it necessary to stock up on essentials she would need for the journey, including ordering a shipment of her favorite gear oil from the local shipyard. There were many vendors that sold the oil, but there was a rash of them adding water to the oil in an attempt to add to their coin. It never worked. Water and oil did not mix, and if one looked into the barrel, they would know instantly. Unfortunately, a lot of Tinkers did not think to look until the shipment arrived at their doorstep, and they found themselves in the possession of oil they could not use. Vic had stayed clear of anyone that was rumored to sell the tainted oil and instead went to the only man she trusted.
“Paolo,” she exclaimed, walking into the shop close to the shipyard. Airships came and went around her, the hums of their propellers and boilers not quite masked in the small shop. Paolo had come to London, as a child, from Italy. His father was an abusive drunkard that his mother risked running from. She had left everything she had known to give her son a better life, and it had worked. His mother lived with him, a wife, and three children, and Paolo was one of the most successful vendors in London.
Paolo looked up from where he was marking in his log books—a task Vic had no urge to ever take on—and grinned at her.
“Victoria,” he exclaimed, opening his arms. She immediately stepped into his embrace, accepting the warm hugs he was famous for. He smelled like oil and the metallic sting of metal, the best combination.
“You know I prefer Vic,” she admonished, pulling from his embrace.
“I know. I just like to tease, is all. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“I have a rather large order for you, I am afraid.”
“That Master Frederick working you to the bone again?”
Vic grinned.
“Actually, this order is for me.” She pulled a bag of coin from her belt. “I am the Master Tinker for my father’s expedition.”
Paolo clapped his hands.
“It is about time, no? Congratulations, Vic! You deserve it every bit.” He looked down at the pile of coins, and his eyes bugged. “How much are you purchasing?”
“Eight months’ worth of gear oil.”
Tears sprang to his eyes, and he pulled her back into his arms.
“That is enough to pay the rent twelve times over. You have taken care of my family by bringing this order to me.”
“I would never trust anyone else, Paolo. You are the best at what you do.”
She meant it. Paolo mixed the oil himself, making sure the balance was always right for proper lubrication. There was no one else who did what he did.
Paolo kissed her cheeks, excitement in his eyes, before grabbing his notebook and writing down her order. After he took the details of the delivery address and date, he grinned at her.
“Stay there. I have something for you,” he said, but before he could make his way to the back, the bell above the door chimed.
A man walked in, not many years her senior, dressed in a grey double-breasted sack suit. Vic immediately noted him as higher class than the men she usually dealt with. He did not once look her way as he pulled his gloves from his hands and walked up to the counter.
“Are you Paolo Ricci?” he asked, his voice rich and cultured. He was most definitely high class. Vic unconsciously smoothed down her trousers, noting the small smudges of grease on her sleeves she never seemed to be without.
“Yes, sir. What can I help you with?”
“I am in a need of an order of box gears, and see that it is delivered by tomorrow.”
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible, sir. It will take me at least a week to procure your order.”
“Are you the best-known vendor, Paolo, or not?”
“Yes, sir, but–”
“Then I expect the order on my doorstep by tomorrow evening. See that it is done, or I will make sure everyone knows you are nothing but a fraud.”
Paolo’s face went white.
“Excuse me?” Vic interrupted, furious at the man’s treatment of her friend. Class did not give a man permission to act a fool. “That is no way to speak to him.”
The man turned towards her voice. His amber-colored eyes took her in, from the boots on her feet, to the trousers, the corset, and the goggles strapped in her hair. His expression immediately changed, his whole demeanor evolving into a smooth, dignified viper.
“What is a beauty like you doing in a dingy shop such as this?” he asked, his voice a purr.
“Paolo is the best vendor in the city. No one else could get you gears that fast, and that is exactly why you came to him. Perhaps you could use a little more class when addressing him rather than act like a boar,” Vic said, holding her head high.
The man waved away her words and stalked towards her, stopping when they were merely inches apart. It was completely inappropriate for a man to be so close to a woman other than his wife, but Vic did not have delicate sensibilities. She was as stubborn as they came, and she refused to back down from this man, no matter his status.
“What does it matter how I choose to talk to my inferiors, Little Tinker?” His voice was soft and seductive.
“The true merit of man is not measured by his class.” Vic met the eyes of Paolo who was watching carefully, waiting to see if she needed any help. “It is measured by how he treats his inferiors.” She flicked her eyes back towards the well-dressed man in front of her. “Paolo will get your shipment as fast as possible, like he always does, and you will respect him.”
“And if I do not?” he asked, tilting his head to the side. His eyes dropped to her lips and she fought against the sudden skip in her heartbeat. She was not attracted to this fool. She refused to be.
“Then I will make sure there is not a crate of box gears in this entire city.”
The man’s lips curled the smallest amount, and he inclined his head.
“Mr. Paolo, as soon as possible would be splendid.” He dropped a large bag of coin on the counter, much more than his order cost. “I will await the delivery anxiously.”
He turned back towards Vic and smiled.
“Good evening, Madam Tinker,” he said, bowing and tipping his bowler.
Vic raised her eyebrows at the man.
“Good evening, Sir Boar.”
The man laughed and headed for the door, pulling on his gloves. At the last moment, he turned back and touched his cheek.
“You have a bit of a smudge just there.”
Vic wiped her hand across her cheek. Indeed, her hand held the telltale streak of grease, and she sighed. The man shot her one last appreciative glance before stepping out into the cacophony of airships and steam-autos, disappearing quickly in the crowd.