Turnkey (The Gaslight Volumes of Will Pocket Book 1) Read Online Free PDF Page A

extend the courtesy of a dry roof and a warm bed, but this is more! This
is an outpost of essence! A phantom limb to the body of revolution I left
behind in Paris!”
    “Look, you might
want to quiet down with all that 'revolution' talk. The King's not that keen
about words like that.”
    “Oh, you English
are so drab, with your militarists and your industry! I'm talking of a movement
of passions! Of humors! Of...boy, could you lend a shoulder? The door's stuck
again.”
    “Sure.” Push.
Thud. Squeak. We went inside. Electric Bohemia,he had called the place.
It was written across the walls of the lobby in scavenged letters taken from
city notices that must've been previously posted on the premises. The “EM” in
BohEMia, for instance, was stamped with a familiar government typeface. And
given the state of the establishment, I dared to suppose that it may have very
likely been clipped from the word “CondEMned.”
    A man with a curled beard was sleeping behind the front desk. The
Frenchman rang a rusted bell and the gent woke in a bustle. He then blinked and
asked my escort how his nightly experiments had fared. They made small talk, or
not, maybe it was some probing debate on the fiber of all humanity. I wasn't
paying attention.
    “Now!” the
Frenchman announced, clapping his hands at me. “All seems to be in order. There
remains only the matter of your gift.”
    “Gift?”
    “I owe you for the
entertainment, remember? How quickly the youth of this world forget!”
    “Really, sir. The
dry room is gift enough. And those unusual cigarettes.”
    I lightly patted
my soggy pocket, assuming the already-dampened tobacco sticks were by now
reduced to a glob of sour pulp.
    “Nonsense! Petty
offerings! You need something more... appropriate for the favor.”
    “Oh? And what's
appropriate for a mud puddle performance?”
    “Hmmm...that seems
to be the question...”
    He started rubbing
his chin again. I shook some rainwater off of myself.
    “Look, sir,” I
began, softly. “Really—“
    “Got it!” he said,
beaming. “Entertainment for entertainment! A fair trade!”
    “Fair trade?”
    “You like to be
entertained, don't you, friend?”
    “I…suppose so…”
    “Then why don't
you make yourself good and comfortable, and I'll see if I can't send something
nice and expressive your way. You like expressive entertainment, don't you?”
    “Oh...sure.
Expressive is fine.”
    “Good! I thought
so! On your way, then.”
    He took me by the
arm and led me through the lobby, pushing along deeper into the inn.
    “That-a-way, young
man,” he instructed as we ventured along. “Go on.”
    He then vanished
through a side door and initiated loud conversation with another on the
opposite side. The discussion was clear and blunt, but being a little cold and
dizzy from the weather, I did not pay adequate attention to exchange.
    “The boy wants
'expressive beauty,'” I half-heard the Frenchman say. “You're an expressive
beauty, right?”
    “I can do
expressive,” said another.
    Rather than ponder
the implications of these words, I shook a little water from my ears and wandered
forward, drippy and alone, on my way.
    The old man had
sent me in the direction of a crooked hallway toward the back of the
establishment. It was dim and a smell I could only classify as week-old sour
milk led me by the nose down the corridor to a small corner bedroom, windowless
and warmer than the rest of the inn.
    I closed the door
and sat on the edge of a table. The walls were mustard yellow, though clearly
not originally. Still, the stained color brought a sense of décor to the box,
and I let my eyes bounce from the yellow to the green of the untrimmed potted
plants that had been stacked in one corner. An overstuffed and overused sofa
sat across from me. To this day, I do not know what possessed me to choose a
tabletop to nest on in place of the obvious seating arrangement, but I went
with my gut and knocked songlets and diddies into the wood