The Clockwork Dagger Read Online Free PDF Page A

corner of her eye. A steward. Many women wouldn’t curtsy to a servant like him, or engage him in a casual conversation as she was doing now.
    He’s been nothing but respectable to me—far more than most. His surname may be Garret, but there’s more to him than that.
    â€œThat man . . . I don’t want my room anywhere near his.”
    â€œâ€…’Tis not likely. We try to book solo women and married couples along the same wing, and men on the other. However, this is a small craft with only twelve double-berth cabins, and there are several common areas where you may encounter him again.”
    â€œI’ll defend myself if necessary.”
    â€œI hope it will not come to that, m’lady.”
    Oh Lady, so do I.
    A doorway ahead was labeled with various signs. On either side were two staircases leading up, shaped in an inverted V . Mr. Garrett pointed to the hallway ahead. “This floor features the lavatories and showers. The smoking room is the most popular social setting aboard. Everyone dines upstairs in the promenade. Your room is also on the deck above.”
    Octavia unstrapped her satchel and tossed it across her shoulder like a bandolier, parasol clattering against the wall. He said nothing as she hauled the suitcase up the stairs. Her breath huffed. By the time she reached the top, her arm ached slightly, and it was a relief to set down the case and pull out the handle again.
    Signs pointed toward the promenade on one side and the cabins on the other. A cage against the wall held a fluttering mass of mechanical birds. The paint on their wings had chipped and let various shades of metal shine through. En masse, they clicked and whirred and tweeted, the sound echoing slightly.
    â€œDo you recall your berth number?” Mr. Garret asked.
    â€œThree-A.”
    â€œThis way, then.” He took her on the left fork. The short hallway consisted of six doors with barely any space between. The two of them standing together with her luggage made the space claustrophobic. Mr. Garret knocked on the door for 3. Octavia heard the clatter of a lock and the door cracked open.
    â€œPardon me,” said Mr. Garret, bowing. “I have brought your roommate, a Miss Octavia Leander?”
    â€œOh, certainly! Goodness gracious.” The door widened to reveal a thick figure in a screaming purple dress. Her silvered blond hair featured a broad blue streak that started at her forehead and swirled into a plump bun pinned atop her head. In truth, everything about her could be described as plump. Her cheeks and jowls were heavy and rounded, and even her fingers on the door resembled puffy pastries.
    But Octavia had a hard time looking at anything other than the woman’s hair. It was . . . bold, to say the least. Dyeing in streaks like that had been a Mercian fad years before, and was currently about as en vogue as riding a swaybacked horse.
    â€œI’m Viola Stout,” the woman said, bobbing her head. Garish blue eye shadow matched the streak in her hair. “Here. Do come in! I am delighted to make your acquaintance. Absolutely delighted.”
    â€œOh. Uh, thank you.” Octavia offered a warm smile. Mrs. Stout’s name struck her as allegorical to her very body type, like a character in a religious tract.
    Mr. Garret backed away, barely squeezing around the suitcase. “I must return to my duties, Miss Leander. I trust you are well now?”
    â€œYes, thank you, Mr. Garret. I’m much obliged for your assistance.”
    With a final little bow, he walked away in commanding strides.
    â€œGoodness, I don’t think I’ve seen a Tamaran in years. Such a nice walk he has. Mmm-hmm, yes. Fitted uniform pants are such glorious, underappreciated attire,” said Mrs. Stout, fanning herself for a moment. “Well! Come inside, child. I fear it’s rather cozy.”
    Cozy was an understatement. The room seemed to be little more than a