The marines had erected a cordon on the quay so immaculate that it resembled red-coated lacework: five women, five gleaming sabres, and one increasingly fidgety me, wilting beneath a paper-parasol helmet they had lashed to my brow "against unregulated sunlight." Somewhere inland a factory whistle howled the noon shift, but the guard detail treated each passing second as if it were a ticking bomb wired to my lapels.
I tried not to take it personally. After all, I was the man who had held a door without permission—a menace to hinges everywhere.
Salt wind teased the harbour, rattling pennants and swirling steam from the mooring-pipes around our boots. Lieutenant Theodosia March—Theo to intimates, of whom she technically had none present—stood at parade rest beside me, jaw set in what I had come to interpret as professional mortification. Every few moments she risked a glance, as if to verify I had not spontaneously catapulted myself into danger.
"Cheer up, Lieutenant," I ventured. "No doors in sight. I feel exceedingly safe."
"If only the statute agreed with you, Mr Forsythe," she sighed. "Your guardian should have reported by now."
A marine sergeant consulted her pocket chronometer. "Six minutes overdue. Prepare the padded travel sarcophagus."
They actually had the crate on a trolley—quilted interior, doily pillows, embroidered warning: FRAGILE MALE—THIS SIDE UP. My spirits performed a small swan-dive.
From the far end of the pier came a resonant ding-ding-clatter and the hiss of vacuum brakes. A trackless trolley—polished burgundy, brass cow-catcher gleaming—lurched to a halt. The front hatch folded down like a concertina to reveal a figure neither wholly person nor mere mechanism.
Imagine, if you will, a lady's maid sculpted from mahogany and lacquered brass: torso a tasteful umbrella-stand, waist cinched by a bandolier of tiny oil-canisters, face a porcelain oval animated by sapphire-glow optics. Every joint whispered click-clock in the polite rhythm of a metronome at a temperance rally. Upon her shiny brow rested a fascinator fashioned from clock-springs and peacock feathers.
She descended, paused, and gave the most perfunctory of curtseys.
"Good afternoon. I am Mabel, valet licensed to Lady Octavia Brasswell, Grandmaster Engineer. I understand a guardian is required?"
Her voice—a mellow contralto with faint gramophone crackle—carried across the quay and thumped the marines' discipline square in the epaulettes.
Mabel's mid-torso panel slid aside; an articulated arm extended, clutching a scroll case. The wax seal bore Octavia's sigil—crossed spanners above a phoenix gear—pressed in crimson. Theo accepted it, broke the seal, and scanned the parchment. Sabre points dipped instinctively.
"Provisional Guardian Certificate," she read. "Issued under Guild charter §41-Alpha, countersigned by the Registrar of Gentle-Craft Licences."
The sergeant swallowed. "All checksums validate. Marine oversight terminates upon signature."
A second arm produced a brass stylus, already inked. I signed where indicated; the pen wiped itself on an internal blotter and disappeared with a smug snick.
Instantly the marines unclipped the velvet safety harness from my waist and snapped a salute—part relief, part apology—while Mabel observed with the serene satisfaction of a chess player claiming mate in three.
"Thank you for your diligent service, ladies," she said, gears dipping in a polite nod. "We shall endeavour not to inconvenience His Majesty's Marines again before supper."
Freedom, however, proved as elusive as a punctual omnibus. The sky above the quay vibrated with the wings of a dozen humming-bird drones, each the size of a man's fist and hungry for a headline. They bobbed, tilted, and dove toward me like glittery hornets, crystal lenses already ticking exposure values.
Mabel gauged the flock. A segment of her right forearm detached and re-formed into a telescoping broom—bristles of soft copper wire. With a whoosh of peppermint-scented steam she vaulted onto a bollard. The broom whirled, carving figure-eights through the air. Tiny propellers met tiny bristles; gears clacked; several drones pin-wheeled into the harbour with apologetic plops.
The remaining machines attempted a tactical retreat. Mabel extended a finger; a puff of icy vapour coated their wings. They faltered, juddered, and settled on the planks like dazed moths.
A nearby fishmonger erupted into applause. So did the marines. I added a modest golf-clap, mostly because the peppermint cloud cleared my sinuses magnificently.
Mabel holstered her broom. "Apologies for the spectacle, Mr Forsythe, but Mistress Brasswell dislikes unauthorised photography."
"I am beginning to treasure her judgment," I said, watching seawater claim the last sputtering paparazzo.
We repaired to a dockside tea-stall whose proprietor, recognising a photo-op gone sideways, offered oolong on the house. Mabel declined sugar—contra-indicated for brass sprockets—and unrolled a slim ledger.
"Temporary wardship conditions," she announced. "Item the first: you will accompany me to Lady Brasswell's townhouse before dusk for formal registration. Item the second: you will refrain from hazardous bows, reckless hatch manipulation, and unmoderated acts of gallantry. Item the third: should financial penalties accrue, please submit receipts for audit."
I considered. "May I request the acquisition of a proper hat? One that doesn't constitute a parasol strapped to my skull?"
"Permissible. Millinery stop en route." She made a notation—quill nib emerging briefly from her cuff—and closed the book with a click.
My stomach offered a plaintive growl. Mabel produced a paper bag containing two custard buns, still warm. "Mistress anticipated caloric deficit."
Reader, I very nearly proposed to the automaton on the spot.
Theo approached while I licked custard from my knuckles. Formality still fenced her posture, yet her eyes had softened.
"Mr Forsythe, I wish to thank you—for the door earlier. Regulations aside, courtesy is… rare." She extended a gloved hand; I shook it, mindful not to bow.
"You did noble work defending me from that bloodthirsty hatch, Lieutenant."
A smile flickered. "Next time, perhaps allow us to open the door." She saluted Mabel. "Valet, he's all yours. May your… eh… lubrication schedule remain favourable."
"Quite," Mabel intoned.
The marines wheeled smartly away, dragging the now-redundant sarcophagus back toward the arsenal of male-proof crates.
Inside the trolley's polished carriage we glided uphill into the heart of the capital. Gas-lamps blossomed along boulevards of chrome-trimmed town-houses; elevated tramlines hissed overhead. Posters on corner kiosks clicked through updates via rotating rollers:
RARE CHAP SIGHTINGS → 2
(Quay Confrontation & Automaton Broom-Fury)*
A sub-header promised daguerreotypes of the duel between my guardian and "notorious humming-bird paparazzi gang." My notoriety, like a stubborn soufflé, refused to sink.
Mabel produced a slim handbook bound in teal levant. The cover read Forty-Two Bows You Mustn't Perform (Revised Male Edition).
"Light bedtime reading," she said, passing it over. "Chapter Ten covers accidental proposals. I recommend a highlighter."
I tucked it into my coat. Through the window, the skyline's cog-crowned towers glimmered rose-gold beneath the late-afternoon sun. Somewhere beyond those rooftops awaited Lady Octavia Brasswell—engineer, benefactress, and, so rumours claimed, collector of oddities rarer than moon-silver. Judging by events thus far, I seemed destined for her shelf.
The trolley bell chimed; Mabel adjusted her fascinator by half a gear-tooth.
"Next stop," she announced, "Milliner's Row, followed by Brasswell Crescent. Kindly refrain from spontaneous heroics until fittings are complete."
I folded my parasol helmet, polished the last streak of custard from my sleeve, and settled back with a sigh of cautious optimism.
"Lead on, Mabel. And if fate hands us another hatch, I promise—this time—I'll let you wrestle the hinges."
The trolley clanged into motion, carrying valet and ward toward a townhouse of tick-tocking wonders—and, unbeknownst to me, straight into the calculating sights of Duchess Euphemia Gearhart, whose ledger already listed one very marketable "Rare Chap."