Kid Gloves (2 page)

As long as Finn could remain hidden, and not get shot himself, he could move stealthily, silently, and put an arrow through a man’s neck without his mark ever knowing he was there.

In five years of military service, only returning home to his mother a handful of times, Finn had earned and saved enough money to be able to afford Dalton’s service and continue with the lifestyle he had grown to love. Or so he hoped.

The noise from the inn carried through the ceiling and filled his room long after what should have been closing time. Finn wondered if this was why he couldn’t sleep; he lay on the lumpy bed, the fingers of his left hand in constant movement against the rough sheets as if reminding himself that they were still there. He had slept, for the past few weeks, with his right arm above his head so he didn’t have to look at the stump at his wrist. It repulsed and terrified him in equal measure, and when he was forced to dwell on the fact, a hot sickness rose in his throat.

Not to think of that now, though. Nine in the morning. He would wake early, for sure.

F
INN
forced himself to wait until a few minutes before nine before leaving the inn. He’d already taken his breakfast, washed and carefully shaved, and dressed. Since losing the hand, he’d found lacing his boots the most taxing part of his day. It took so much time for the simple task, and he almost didn’t dare to dream of having that power back.

The sign on the door outside Dalton’s read “Closed,” but Finn knocked anyway and let himself in, carefully shutting the door after. It was warmer in here this morning but not quite so bright. Finn took a deep breath for courage, and walked purposefully through to the little workshop.

“Morning,” Dalton grunted from a corner.

“Good morning.”

Finn failed in his attempt at keeping the excitement from his voice.

“It’s not finished,” Dalton said in warning, apparently hearing that anticipation and wanting to dampen it early on. “This is a prototype based on the measurements I took yesterday. It will take some more honing and a fair amount of hard work on your part before I can let you loose.”

“I understand,” Finn said. “Could I see it? Please?”

Dalton mumbled to himself and stalked around the room for a few moments longer. He was wearing a blue shirt this morning, rough fabric trousers, and his locks of hair, each as thick as Finn’s thumb, were falling free around his face. He swatted at them ineffectually a few times before digging out a long, thin piece of leather cord from a drawer and tying it back.

Finally he met Finn at the workbench and pulled the new hand from a small wooden crate.

Excitement shot up Finn’s spine as he took in the copper and silver contraption. It was both crude and beautiful, shiny in places and dull in others. Springs and wires and screws and molded pieces of metal clashed together. At the wrist, the metal was unformed, waiting, Finn presumed, to be fitted to his own body.

“It’s incredible,” Finn said.

He knew from the stories Tennessee had shared around the campfire, and more that he’d sought out himself, that there was virtually no external body part that Dalton was unable to recreate, and he was still experimenting on the internal ones. There were rumors of mechanical hearts, electromagnetic livers, stomachs fueled by real fire. Nothing confirmed yet though. But soon. But maybe.

Finn also knew that when not working on bespoke pieces, Dalton made generic ones that were sold more cheaply to those who could not afford to pay for more. Old women who worked on the docks, girls who worked in the slaughterhouses, and children lame from the workhouse were sent here to pick up a new foot or knee or leg that was only matched to their height and weight and gender. Not like this piece. This was unique.

“Need to fit it,” Dalton said, and Finn noticed for the first time the deep, purplish shadows under the other man’s eyes. The hand was clearly the result of many hours’ work, and he had not slept well this past night.

Finn wasn’t required to remove his shirt for the fitting, but Dalton did carefully fold back the sleeve until it was tucked up out of the way just above Finn’s elbow. He led Finn to a small stool next to an open fire—Finn realized that this must be where the extra heat was coming from.

“Here,” Dalton said, passing Finn a tin of thick, waxy stuff. “Put this all over the end of your wrist. Use a lot.”

Finn did as he was instructed, digging his fingers in and smearing it over the stump at the end of his arm. He was suddenly less self-conscious about it than he had been the day before. He gripped the tin between his knees and replaced the lid, then wiped his fingers with a handkerchief.

Dalton was stoking the fire, his hands encased in thick protective gloves. The heat was making sweat break out across Finn’s forehead, and he wondered if he would be burned.

“That stuff protects you from the heat of the metal,” Dalton was saying, and Finn forced himself to pay attention. “Are you sure you used enough of it?”

Finn nodded. “I’m sure.”

“Okay.”

With tools that were blackened with soot, Dalton thrust the wrist end of the mechanical hand into the heat of the fire, waited until the silver grew red-hot, and then transferred it to a slate platform next to the fire and began to sculpt the metal.

Watching him work, Finn got an idea of the skill and mastery required to make these strange, otherworldly creations, the combination of fire and copper and the insistent clanging of wood and silver and slate.

Suddenly, Dalton was demanding “Now,” and Finn stuck out his arm, bracing himself for burned skin and searing heat that never came. The metal was warm, for sure, but it wasn’t unbearable.

“Don’t touch it with your left hand,” Dalton warned him. “Or I’ll be making you new fingers to match.”

Dalton frowned at Finn, in displeasure or concentration, Finn wasn’t sure. He selected a smaller wooden tool and started to gently tap at the hot metal, forcing it to mold around the end of Finn’s arm. After a few minutes of working like this he cast his protective gloves aside and wiped the sweat from his brow.

“Here,” he said, and Finn lifted his arm. Dalton carefully took hold of the metal fingers and tugged, the grease helping the hand slide off. “You can go and wash your arm now.”

He gestured to a door off to the left, and Finn obediently rose and made his way around the various benches and machinery to a small washroom. There was a bar of soap next to the deep wooden sink, and despite Finn’s scrubbing, it took a good few minutes of work before he felt his arm was completely clean. He dried it off with a surprisingly soft towel and rolled his sleeve back down to cover the end of his arm.

The whole procedure had taken longer than he had expected; the rush of fire and adrenaline had kept him on edge for a long time, and combined with his lack of sleep the night before, Finn suddenly felt exhausted. As he walked back through to the workshop, he yawned, then tried to cover it as he caught sight of Dalton already working on the next part of the process, smoothing out the still rough edges of the hand.

“That’s it for today,” Dalton said, barely looking up. “I’ll keep at this for a while. Come back same time tomorrow.”

Finn nodded, disappointed but accepting that he couldn’t expect Dalton to work day and night to get the new hand ready for him.

“Can I get you anything?” Finn asked, surprising them both as Dalton looked up.

“No, thank you,” Dalton said. But the offer had earned Finn the first real smile he’d seen from the other man yet.

“Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” Dalton echoed.

Dalton may have refused Finn’s offer, but that didn’t mean that he did not want anything from the young man. The scent of raw metal filled the room, clogging up his senses as he continued to work on the mechanical hand. It was one of his finest pieces, he was sure of that much, and couldn’t help feeling that the hand’s owner had inspired both the beauty and strength he was creating.

Finn was not the type of man that Dalton was normally attracted to. Not at all. He had, for many years, sought solace in the arms of men older than himself—much older, in some cases. The line between mentor and lover had been blurred too many times for him to count. Dalton had taken something from each of these men; the blacksmith who’d taught him how to work metal, the surgeon who had taught him human biology, the engineer who had taught him mechanics, the professor who had taught him how to read and write—essential skills, when he opened his business. There was little in common between his previous lovers. Some had been of the highest class of society, others from much lower down on the ladder of life. That didn’t matter. He took what they had offered him and gave his body in return.

Not for many years now, though. It had been a long time since he was young and hairless, the look that each of his lovers had uniformly desired. That no longer mattered. He had built up his reputation and his business on the bones of knowledge that each had passed on, and he was proud of his discoveries.

His sexuality had been formed when he was too young to know what it was, or the power that he held as a man. He knew that some of the other traders along Columbia Road were wary of him; he had no wife and showed no interest in taking one. He did not frequent the brothels. Girls did occasionally come to his door, or come to sit next to him in a tavern, but he was always polite with his refusal of their company.

The way he felt while around Finn was scaring him, just a little bit.

He finished off the work he needed to do on the wrist joint and balanced the hand on the end of a wooden post he’d carved for the very purpose of holding something steady. This was not his last task before he could go and sleep, though.

Dalton knew he should probably eat something but couldn’t force anything past his lips other than tepid tea. His head ached, his eyes hurt from hours of concentration, but if he didn’t do something with the human hand still lying on a marble slab it would start to rot. And that would be unpleasant.

He’d hidden the hand when Finn came that morning by simply throwing a cloth over it. That cloth was placed carefully in a bucket ready for washing, then Dalton surveyed the morbid sight in front of him.

Finn’s hand was well preserved. Tennessee would have seen to ensuring it was packed tightly for the journey, and it was Dalton’s responsibility now to take care of it until his work was complete. In most cases, he then delivered the limb to the Royal London Hospital in Whitechapel. It meant walking through the East End with his gruesome packages, knowing that the residents of this area of the city knew who he was and what he was carrying. To another man, this might be intimidating, but Dalton had been victim of stares and whispers for too long now. He was used to it.

He found a suitably sized jar and placed Finn’s hand in it, adding his own combination of salt water and alcohol to the brim and tightly replacing the lid. It was not the most sophisticated of preserving methods but it would do. The jar was placed in a cupboard with a solid door—meaning Finn wouldn’t accidentally catch sight of it.

Then Dalton scrubbed his hands and forearms with the same bar of soap Finn had used to remove the wax from his arm—Dalton knew this. He could still feel the residue on the soap. With exhaustion fast approaching, he checked that the door was locked, climbed the stairs to the few small rooms above the shop that he called home, and collapsed on his bed fully dressed, and slept.

O
N
THE
third day of their interaction, Dalton was well rested and feeling more serene than he had in a long time. There was a hum of anticipation running through his veins; he couldn’t help but feel like Finn was going to get on spectacularly with his new hand, and Dalton was anxious to get started.

Not wanting to look overeager, Dalton started his morning by opening up the shop front early, while the other traders were still setting up their stalls. He even managed a smile for the lady in the flower shop, although that would probably later prove to be an inadvisable move.

Spring was in the air, and Dalton left the door to the shop propped open, hoping to entice the crisp breeze through the shop and banish the smells of soot and metal and sweat.

Finn was running late, but that didn’t bother him particularly. He wasn’t one for rigorous timekeeping, and despite his anticipation he sat down at his workbench—facing the door, this time—and got to work on one of his standard replacement knee joints.

When Finn did arrive he was red in the face and out of breath, clearly having run down to the shop from wherever he was staying.

“Forgive me for my tardiness,” he said, straightening and forcing himself to walk evenly into the workshop. “I overslept.”

“It’s fine,” Dalton said and smiled again, despite himself. “At ease, soldier. I’m not your sergeant general.”

Finn nodded and relaxed his shoulders.

“Sleep well?” Dalton inquired.

“Yes, thank you, sir,” he said.

“Dalton.”

“Yes.” They were yet to use each other’s names in conversation. “Is it ready?”

“Yes,” Dalton echoed. He stood, carefully stowed his tools, and led Finn to the spot where the hand had been resting on the wooden post overnight. It was still a little rough around the edges, and he would clean up the joints and file off the sharp spots before releasing it to its new owner. But until Finn tried it on, Dalton had no way of knowing what adjustments might be needed, so he saved the fine details for later.

There was still work to be done to fit the hand to the stump at the end of Finn’s arm, so Dalton directed him to sit again on the small stool next to the fire, although today it wasn’t stoked and gave off much less heat.

Dalton himself sat on the hearth, not caring about getting dirt on his clothes, and again rolled Finn’s shirt up to his elbow.

“How are you feeling?” he murmured as he set about getting his leatherworking tools in order.

“Good,” Finn said. “Excited. And nervous.”

“Me too.”

“You’re not supposed to tell me you’re nervous,” Finn said with a tentative smile.