The Mysterious Madam Morpho

“I told you not to worry, darling,” he whispered. “The caravan takes care of her own.”



“I think you mean his own,” she said, watching Criminy Stain try not to laugh as the Coppers dragged the thrashing professor away from the crowd.



Criminy leaped onto the pedestal at her side and put the butterfly into her hand. It was heavier than it should have been, its wings beating with a rhythmic click.



“Mr. Murdoch is rather a genius, don’t you think?” he asked.



“Master Stain, I don’t know how to thank you—” she began, but he waved her off.



“Thank me by drawing a crowd and charming them over again, my lady. That’s what we do best.”



He reached down to pluck the mask from the ground and gallantly placed it into her hands.



16



The rest of the show was uneventful. Beauregard had done her a favor by attracting so much attention, and she was busy enough showcasing the cunning butterflies and pressing the right buttons herself according to Henry’s whispered instructions. At first, it felt strange, being gawked at by so many slack-jawed strangers. But by the time the third crowd had gathered around her, she knew just how to time the music and the unveiling of her hastily repaired wings. Criminy’s clockwork monkey even came by to deliver a note of congratulations signed in red ink.



Although she could tell now by their movements that all of the butterflies were fake, the caravan visitors showed no doubt whatsoever. Children gaped, women looked on with silent tears, men debated their price on the open market, and ancient city dwellers recounted the last time they had seen butterflies in the parks of London. It was what Imogen had always dreamed—that the world could see the beauty of creatures long extinct. And yet these were not her priceless specimens. Perhaps, like the clockwork animals waiting between the caravan cars, a feat of mechanical magic was just as original, just as miraculous, as the real thing.



And yet she had to wonder what that meant for her. Anyone could run Henry’s clever contraption, his automated butterfly circus. A child could master it in moments. If Imogen’s specimens stayed forever safe on a shelf or simply fluttered around her head all day, Criminy’s caravan had no real need of her. As she had been told her whole life, she was useless. Undaunted by the painful truth, she became more determined than ever to carve a life for herself among the carnivalleros.



When the crowds finally dispersed and the last bus-tanks were rolling back to London over dark moors, Imogen was more exhausted than she had ever been. Performing onstage was both wonderful and terrible, and she had never quite believed that Beauregard was gone. He wasn’t one to give up on anything, and despite the Coppers’ assurances that he would not return, she kept waiting to see his nose cutting toward her through the crowd like a shark through murky water. She had seen him pursue a fossilized dragon’s tooth through three years’ worth of auctions and buyers, just waiting to snatch it up at the right time. And now he knew exactly where she was.



She pressed the button to turn off the mechanical butterfly circus, and the graceful bodies silently fell where they lay, the wings folding gently. It was so clever, how Henry had waited until the precise moment she had whispered to set his machinery into motion by remote control from where he stood in the shadows. Bending over, she traced a Swallowtail with one finger, boldly feeling the enamel body where it sparkled against the wooden boards.



“Even you believed it at first,” Henry said, appearing at her side, and she nearly threw herself into his arms, tucking her head against his chest.



“All this time, you never told me. How long have you been planning this?”



“From the start. I feared some secrets had best keep themselves.”



“But you said nothing. Why?”



“Because I knew you wouldn’t accept it. The scientist in you wants the world to love the miracle of the butterflies, to know the wonder of seeing what no longer exists. But I would rather keep you safe than give them a spectacle they can’t even appreciate.”



She reached up to touch his face and drew back. It was smooth. “Your beard!”



“I told you I would shave it. For you.” He leaned back, running a hand along the sharp line of his jaw. “I thought it might be some small compensation for fooling you.”



“Another hypothesis proved true. You’re even more handsome without it.”



He helped her down from the platform and guided her to the door of his wagon. Imogen stepped in, so tired she was swaying on her feet. Henry closed the door and gently turned her, untying the mask and the cage of her skirt and hanging them both on his octopus coat rack. Next came her coat, the brilliant blue winking warmly in the lamps. Then she wore nothing but the black silk dress, which clung to her like a liquid shadow.



She watched him as he removed the leather coat, the hat, the goggles, the gloves, a smile curving her lips as she saw his bare face and unhidden figure for the first time. So much of life in the caravan involved dressing and undressing, and she wanted to get into bed and stay unencumbered for some time.



“There you are,” she said, and he shook out his sweat-damp hair and grinned.



“I barely recognize myself.”



A footstep sounded from the workshop.



“Oh, but I recognize you, Henry Gladstone.”



They froze, hands clasped, as Beauregard stepped through the door, a small crossbow aimed at Imogen’s chest.



Beauregard chuckled. “I remember the papers. You were the one who nearly killed all those poor children and our beloved Magistrate. This caravan makes a fine hiding place for those who seek to avoid the laws of London.”



“Professor—”



“Silence, Miss Bumble. I got what I needed from you, and it appears you’ve taken what you needed from me. Tell me where you’ve stowed the specimens and the charm, and I might turn you over to the Coppers in one barely tolerable piece and let your weaselly little assistant live.”



Beyond him, in the workshop, Imogen could see Vil’s boots on the ground, not moving, and she gasped.



“Now, let’s be reasonable—”



“That’s enough out of you, sir.” Beauregard swung his arrow toward Henry, who closed his mouth and swallowed, putting his hands up.



“The specimens, Miss Bumble. Now. Or he takes an arrow. Perhaps in the face, to make him even with that little girl he blinded?”



The crossbow swiveled upward, and Henry flinched. “I hid the specimens myself,” he said. “And I’ll gladly be rid of them. But may I say one thing first?”



“Make it quick.”



Henry pointed at the crossbow. “Ambidextrous onomatopoeia asphyxiate. Kill him.”



“What?”



Beauregard spun as the metal cheetah erupted from under the tarp by the door and leaped for his throat. With an explosion of junk, the severed half of a unicorn in the corner dragged itself toward him on copper hooves. Several unfinished snakes of brass and steel slithered awkwardly across the wooden floor, striking Beauregard again and again in the legs as the cheetah ripped savagely into his neck. Part of a woman’s torso from the Bolted Burlesque struggled to crab-walk across the room, leaving gouges in the floorboards. Soon there was nothing to be seen of world-renowned naturalist Professor Beauregard but twitching boots.



His crossbow clattered to the ground to splash in a spreading pool of blood. Henry sat on the bed, drawing Imogen onto his lap and tucking her head into his shoulder, crooning as the clockwork beasts destroyed the man who had almost destroyed them both.



“Shh,” he murmured into her fallen hair. “Look away, darling.”



After a while, he laid her down gently, facing the wall. With her head turned into his pillow, she heard him walk across the floor and throw back the rug. A latch unhitched, followed by the bang of a door, and she realized that his wagon had more than one bolt hole.



“Raith, carry him away. Leave him for the bludbadgers and return.”



A wet dragging noise was followed by a thud and a metal clank, and then the smooth clicking of the cheetah grew distant as it carried its heavy load through the night.



“Return, you lot,” Henry muttered. Imogen didn’t open her eyes until the sounds of metallic tugging and slithering had ceased and the only thing she heard was her own heartbeat frantic in her ears. She looked up just as Henry’s arms encircled her.



“Is Vil hurt?”



“Knocked out but breathing. Beauregard must have forced the poor fellow to give up the passcodes to my wagon.”



“Is Beauregard gone?”



“Very, very gone.”



“Can they trace it to you? To us?”



“I’ll clean up the blood tonight. The bludbunnies will leave nothing but bones. The bludbadgers might not even leave that much.”



She sighed, snuggling close. “I should feel sorry for him—but I find I do not.”



“Bad people come to bad ends, darling. He deserved much worse. We’d best go tell Criminy what’s happened. He might wish to move the caravan before morning to avoid unnecessary questions.”



When they arrived at Criminy’s doorstep, rumpled and half-dressed and mostly in shock, the caravan master only laughed that great, wild laugh of his.



“You were right again, my love,” he called into the warm light of the wagon he shared with Letitia.



“About Casper? Has the Magistrate finally tossed him out?” she called sleepily from within.



“About Madam Morpho and the reclusive Mr. Murdoch.”



“That’s not my real name, you know,” Henry said, rubbing his jaw.



“I’ve always known, dear boy.”



“And you should know that my real name is—” Imogen started, but Criminy quieted her with a hand.



“I don’t want to know, my dear lady. Whatever name you go by, whoever wants your head on a pike, you’ll always be welcome in Criminy’s Clockwork Caravan as Madam Imogen Morpho. And you can use the clockwork butterflies or the real ones for your show. Magic is magic, as far as I’m concerned. Either way, you’re one of us now.”