Like a Wisp of Steam, Thomas Roche [list of e readers txt] 📗

it and I'll have boiled chimera for tea. My last three Mary Anns weren't half so cheeky, you know. I should have had a Wellington instead."

Mary Ann kissed her foot, running her tongue-tip along the underside of her toes. Amelia shuddered, not unpleasurably.

"Stop that. We've got business to attend to."

"Later?"

"Perhaps, yes. If you behave during the shoot." Inside, however, she was thinking, Definitely yes. It had been a long time since her last go-round and the unaccustomed feeling of skin exposed to cool air excited her. It's nothing to be ashamed of, she told herself. Lots of people use chimerae for intimate purposes. It wasn't, after all, as though they were human beings. Still, she hadn't planned on using this Mary Ann for that purpose. And, more to the point, it was cock she craved, not tickles and kisses, however artfully administered.

Perhaps she would give herself a treat at Cullen's after this ordeal was over.

"Get that other boot off now, and let's go." She smiled mischievously. "We mustn't keep my admirer waiting, must we?"

* * * *

In the chaos of the main studio, the daguerrographer stood oblivious to everyone and everything, utterly absorbed by his preparations for the afternoon's session. The daguerrograph imaging-engine was a strange and sinister-looking device that reminded Amelia of a vast black insect, all its limbs partially folded up on themselves. Periodically it released a hissing shaft of steam from a hidden valve and shifted itself slightly, as though restlessly seeking a more comfortable position.

There were many such devices now, all derived from the same strange science that had allowed the creation of chimerae; machines unrelated in function but all sharing a strange resemblance to living things. Great bulbous airships like vast skyborne fish carried mail and cargo to every corner of the Empire. Cabriolets maneuvered the streets at breakneck speed, drawn by metallic extensions like skeletal horses, or guided by internal mechanisms that functioned as artificial brains. The church disapproved strenuously of these effigies of the Creator's work, but they made the world faster and more profitable; commerce would not be denied its toys.

Mr. Darwin, Amelia supposed, was having a jolly good laugh at the whole affair.

The daguerrographer's attention remained firmly fixed on his machine. Amelia felt a bit piqued by this, for no reason she could determine. Perhaps it was Mary Ann's silly speculation on the man's supposed infatuation with her.

Edward Roxby, her business agent, was seated nearby. He rose when he saw Amelia, his plump red face beaming. "My dear," he exclaimed, offering her his hand. He gestured at the dark, simple dress Amelia had changed into. "You look utterly ravishing. What a lovely country lass you make!"

As though you'd notice, Amelia thought wryly, glancing at the tall, rather absurdly muscular young man who trailed along after Edward, following him step for step. The fellow wore nothing but a sort of abbreviated toga, and had the blank white eyes of an Adonis-model chimera.

Times were changing indeed, Amelia reflected. Not so long ago, a respectable businessman would never have dared avail himself of such a toy—not in the light of day, certainly. Not five years ago, Roxby would have been hounded out of London as a godless sodomite.

"Thank you, dear Edward." Some inner demon of perversity forced her chin up, and she said, loudly, "I wonder if the rest of the room is in agreement." She was speaking directly to the daguerrographer's black-jacketed back, and she had the pleasure of seeing him twitch.

Perhaps he really is in love with me, she thought. Well,why not? I'm not a hag quite yet, and he's not a poorly-made man. Or perhaps I just feel sorry for him because of thestammer. She shrugged the thought off, setting herself down in a chair so the daguerrographer's assistants could chatter over her and apply powders to her face. Mary Ann stood beside her, watching the process with great interest. The powders were meant to eliminate the glare of reflected light from her face in the final images, but Amelia was unused to makeup in such quantity, and its application now made her uncomfortable.

The studio was swarming with chimerae of every make and model. Amelia distracted herself by watching them. They were here for the daguerrographs, of course, to lend the right fantastical air. Many of them, unsurprisingly, were based on characters from her own books. They had been licensed and turned out by major chimera breeding firms for some time now, as toys for very rich children. The Plum-Pudding Prince waddled by, the Queen of Cheese close on his heels. Black-robed witches slouched muttering in corners; several not-quite identical versions of Master Christopher Pug stood gathered silently together, smoking their pipes with a curiously morose air. The sun-drenched upper reaches of the studio swarmed with fairies. It always amazed Amelia how quickly she had grown used to these creatures, even bored by them. The first time she had seen Mr. Tenniel's illustrations to her very first book, that had brought a delicious amazement that even today lingered.

Finally preparations were at an end, and Amelia was escorted to a strange kind of artificial forest growing in one corner of the room, with plaster trees and pasteboard grass.

The rough artificial moss pricked the too-soft soles of her bare feet.

Then, finally, the daguerrographer came over to smile and offer his hand. "Muh, muh, Miss Lessington," he said, and swallowed hard with a pained expression. "I'm so suh-sorry, you will p-please f-forgive me." He turned from Amelia, as though meeting her eyes was painful.

"Not at all, Mr. Dodgson," she said gently, reaching for his hand and clasping it for a moment. Mary Ann eyed her knowingly and got a glare. I only feel sorry for the poor man.

He's embarrassed...

"Cuh-confounded nuh-nuh-nuisance. Thuh, the s-s-stammer, you know. It will p-pass, I ass-ss- assure you."

Edward, standing off to the side, shot Amelia a wry, not unsympathetic glance. Gossip had it that Dodgson's stammer had worsened considerably since he had been turned out of his mathematician's post at Oxford, forced