The Mysterious Madam Morpho

He paused for a second, and she could nearly hear him making the connections.



“Surely your father isn’t Randolf Bumble, dean of the London Zoo?”



“Naturally.”



“I didn’t even know he had a daughter.”



“Few did.”



“Cripes, I barely knew he was human. Most austere man I’ve ever met, and that’s coming from someone who builds automatons for a living.”



She dropped her forehead to the wood, fighting tears. “You have pinned the tragedy of my childhood in a single sentence, sir.”



His arm twisted against her sleeve, his hand covering hers with a searing heat. “Do go on.”



“Naturally, when I arrived for my first class at university, the scandal was great. I still find it amazing that in such advanced times as ours, one of the greatest universities of the world persists in rejecting half of the population due to gender. With the help of my maid, I had secretly sewn a conservative female version of the classic King’s College uniform, and my hope was that under my robe, it would be little noticed.”



“That you never considered the telling beauty of your face is almost laughable.”



“I was raised in near isolation. I saw the maids, the cooks. I had a governess briefly, but Father dismissed her for hysterics, by which I mean he once caught her hugging me when I broke a finger at age eight. There were few mirrors in my house, as they reminded him of my mother. I had very little idea of feminine beauty.”



“But they let you study?”



“After a great deal of debate, yes. I had thoroughly scoured the laws and had an answer to every inquiry. They could not refuse me without causing a great stir. As it was, I was allowed to continue, provided I did not reveal my scholarship to anyone outside of the college. My father was understandably furious and disowned me that very day.”



His hand tightened around hers in what she took as both anger and sympathy. “That is unspeakably cruel.”



“And yet I took a fierce joy in it.” She chuckled. “There I was, penniless, with nothing but my class robes and a handful of secondhand books. And yet it was as if a weight had been lifted from my soul. After classes that day, I found myself sitting on the steps of the library, trying to puzzle out where I might sleep for the night without being eaten by bludrats. And that’s where Professor Beauregard found me and offered me use of the cottage on his estate in exchange for my employment in the eclipsazoology wing of the Natural History Museum. Despite his many similarities to my father in harshness, manners, and misogyny, I accepted on the spot. That night, asleep in my own bed for the first time, I felt as if I had begun a bright new period of my life. I was an independent woman at last.”



“I assume from your bitterness that such was not the case?”



“Indeed not. Professor Beauregard had more planned for me than simply cataloging new specimens in the museum.”



“Did he?”



She cleared her throat meaningfully. “He did. I was practically a slave, entirely dependent on his goodwill. I went to class in the morning and worked all night and every weekend. Even the maids had a half-day on Sunday, but not I. If his papers weren’t graded perfectly, if his museum wasn’t kept up to the strictest standards, if I didn’t make myself available in every possible way, I was well aware that I would find myself stripped of my degree and on the streets without a friend in the city and with nowhere to go but the poorhouse or the whorehouse.”



“And in the end?”



“In the end, he broke my spirit, took my innocence, taught me the cruel ways of the world, and made it clear that life among vagrants in a caravan would most likely treat me better than a life of control by the most wealthy and erudite scholar of London’s most celebrated circles.”



For a moment, the only sound in the intimate silence was their breathing and the subtle rasp of clothing on wood. The stays of her corset dug into her stomach painfully, helping her to hold back the deep, whooping breaths that might have allowed tears.



“I am sorry that someone who should have protected you used you most cruelly for his own ends,” he whispered. “Well do I know that there is nothing more dangerous than a man who thinks he knows everything.”



“To be honest, I did not anticipate that he would discover the missing specimens so soon.”



“Men who can’t be trusted trust no one,” he said. “I’m surprised he allowed you access to them in the first place.”



“It was a fortuitous accident. I was cataloging a donation from a patron. He expected me to find nothing but dusty boxes, useless portfolios, and old handbills.”



“Instead, you found a miracle.”



“I thought so. He saw only an opportunity.”



She felt she had said too much, that he would press her further for details on the magic behind the butterflies or the other things her professor had claimed of her. Another pause strung out, Vil’s nervous scuttling below the only noise. Mr. Murdoch leaned close to her ear and whispered something so softly she could barely hear it.



“Beg pardon?” she asked, breathless from more than her crushing stays.



“Never mind,” was his only answer. Before she could press him, a sharp knock sounded on the door below.



“It’s open,” Vil called, louder than necessary.



“We must be silent until they are gone.” She felt his breath so close that she went light-headed. “Don’t move a muscle, if you can help it. I’ll not let them take you, whatever happens.”



He squeezed her hand again but did not let go.



8



The door opened, bringing the cadence of harsh voices and hobnail boots. She traced the sound as it moved from the outer chamber and into the workshop, right below her. Over the frantic thumping of her heart, she could make out most of the words.



“Vilhelm Murdoch?” The Copper’s London accent was no comfort, nor was his gruff tone.



“Th-th-that’s me,” Vil stuttered.



“Papers.”



Boots moved around the workshop, and Imogen could imagine the Coppers walking, stooping, poking a clock here and lifting a tool there, hunting for places where stolen specimens might be hidden. A fist sounded against the wood walls, but the note was solid, and the boots moved onward. For the first time, Imogen realized that she had not seen a bed in either room of the wagon and wondered where it might be hidden or if perhaps her mysterious companion never slept at all.



“Mr. Murdoch, you are aware that we hunt a fugitive?”



“I r-r-read about it in the papers. A w-w-woman, it said?”



“Indeed. Medium stature, slender build, last seen dressed as a King’s College fellow.”



“Ain’t been no one of that sort in my wagon. I’d have noticed.”



After a dangerous silence, the Copper said, “Then you won’t mind if we have a look around.”



“N-n-no, sir. Please do. I don’t need dangerous women mucking up the clockworks.”



Boots clunked around, and Mr. Murdoch’s hand squeezed hers again. Just then, it occurred to her that Vil had claimed to be Mr. Murdoch. Vilhelm Murdoch. She turned her head to face the man lying beside her in the dark and longed to ask him exactly who he was.



“Lots of books,” a different Copper’s voice growled, as if that were a problem.



“I am a literary man,” Vil said with offended conviction. “And much of my work is conjectural. See here, the diagrams?”



The Copper snorted in disgust, and Imogen heard a book fall with a thump. Frankly, she was amazed that Vil could utter such a sentence without stuttering.



“What’s in the trunks?”



“Metal, of course. F-f-for my creations.” Snap open, firm snap shut.



“What’s in here?”



“Toilets.” Door opened, door shut.



“What about over here?”



“A closet.”



Imogen held her breath as the door below their perch opened, letting in the faintest trace of light. With her head turned, she found herself looking into the wide green eyes of the mysterious man by her side, his mouth barely open and a look of wonder and worry on his face.



“Lots of suits for a recluse,” the Copper said.



“I like to stay well c-covered, sir. With so many Bludmen about, you can’t blame me.”



To Imogen’s boundless relief and amazement, the door closed, bathing them in darkness again.



“Too true, too true,” the Copper said, far more amiably. “But if you’re leery of them, why in Sang would you work for one of the bloodthirsty bastards?”



Vil barked a harsh laugh. “If you can’t b-b-beat them, join them. I keep mostly to myself, in any case.”



“That’s what we heard,” the Copper said. “Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Murdoch. Here’s a broadsheet, should you come across any strange women.”



A moment of silence passed, and Imogen imagined Vil reading the bill.



“This woman,” he said. “She could be anyone.”



The Copper grunted. “Aye. Apparently, neither her father nor her employer could give an accurate description to the artist. Should you have the unfortunate luck to meet her, you’ll know her by her dangerous mind and manly behavior. Betraying creature actually bribed her way into King’s College to study with the men. Unnatural, if you ask me.”



“Most unnatural,” Vil agreed.



Two sets of boots marched across the wagon, and the door opened.



“B-b-best of luck to you, sirs,” Vil called.



“To you as well, Mr. Murdoch,” one of the Coppers answered.



The door closed, and Imogen exhaled, laying her cheek along the smooth, cold wood of the ledge. She felt the tension likewise uncoil from the body of the man beside her, and he reached out to cup her face in the darkness.



“Henry Gladstone,” he whispered.



“What?”



“That’s my real name.”



It caught her entirely by surprise, the fever of his touch and his words. Before she could react or figure out why the name was familiar or stop herself from leaning her cheek gently into his palm, the closet door opened.