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

them.
    “There we are!”
she said with a sudden, unexpected sweetness. “Ready to be of assistance,
Master Will! Shall I fetch you ink and paper?”
    I watched,
absolutely astonished, as the mad woman bounced on her toes from corner to corner,
humming a tune I could swear sounded quite similar to the knuckle songs I was
rapping into the table previously.
    “What are you
doing?” I said at last.
    “I am this
evening's Muse, Master Will! Begin as you will!”
    I tried to
protest, but I couldn't get a word over her song. Her humming voice became
louder and she swayed to and fro, knocking over plants, which I then tended to,
and knocking open dresser drawers, which I then adjusted, in her rainy night
dance.
    On her song's
third refrain she whacked open a cabinet drawer for the second time and in
responding to it, I took notice of a small, framed photograph. Without
thinking, I took it in my hand and observed it. It was a yellowed portrait of
two school-age girls, the taller grinning with sparks in her eyes and gaps in
her teeth. Her hair was up and her body was tilted toward her companion with
the grace of a circus acrobat.
    “Give me that!”
Abby snapped, tearing off her wings. “No one said you could start snooping!
Show's over!”
    “I didn't mean to
upset—“
    “Get out, Will.”
    I have no idea why
I didn't. I wanted to like hell, but instead...
    “What do you think
you are doing?” Abby barked, leaning in on me.
    “One moment.”
    “What's that
there?”
    “Hang on.”
    I had taken from
my soggy pocket a soggy napkin I had picked up somewhere in my travels and a
half-dulled pencil and was scribbling furiously with one on the other.
    “I'm almost done,”
I calmly announced.
    She leaned in to
observe my work.
    “What's the gag,
Will? You're no sketch-painter.”
    “Not before this
night.”
    I rose from the
table I had again taken rest upon and handed her the napkin. Politely I
squeezed the rain out of my shirttail while she studied my drawing, a crude
stick-bodied caricature of the spark-eyed, gap-toothed young girl.
    “I think I should
go,” I said with a bow.
    “Will,” Abby said,
barely over a whisper, “I don't understand.”
    I could only
shrug, stuffing my hands in my sloshy pants. “Eh, me neither. Inspiration's a
weird thing. I stopped trying to figure it out years ago.”
    She let a faint
smile out and folded the napkin into neat fourths. She was standing on the
wings.
    “Cynthia,” she
said.
    “Pretty name,” I
replied. “Fitting for a bright-eyed girl.”
    “Yeah.”
    “I'll see ya,
Abby.”
    The brass key was
still in the lock. I twisted it and the weight of the doorknob turned in my
hand as I re-entered the hall.
    “See you, Will.”
     
    “Yeah, that's all
fine, Pocket. But what about the faerie juice?”
    “Can't a guy build
up to a plot point with grace?”
    “See, this is why
the fox boy didn't pay you any attention. You linger.”
    “I do not linger.”
    “Sure. Just get to
the faerie juice or move along. You're losing me.”
    “Well, you can be
happy then, Alan, because at that exact moment the old Frenchman moved into my
path and pushed a round, glass bottle straight into my gut. Satisfied?”
    “I think you're
just skipping ahead because I complained. You're far too reliant on your
audience.”
    “Fine! As I was
saying...”
     
    I coughed and
moved my fingers to grip the glass. The old man was smiling ferociously. I
prompted my feet to run.
    “Was my friend
able to you assist you?” he asked.
    “I don't think I'm
her type,” I said with a smile. “But she led me in the right direction.”
    “The room has one
door. The only direction was out.”
    Best direction
there is.
    “Fair enough,” I
admitted, “What's in the bottle?”
    “Faerie juice.”
    “Yeah? Where'd you
find faeries to juice?”
    He laughed. I
cautiously took a few steps back. The Frenchman let go as I did, leaving the
bottle in my hands. I attempted to give it back to him, but his