The Friday Society (31 page)

53

Thus . . .

T
HERE WAS NO
grave. And there were only three mourners. They stood on the bridge in St. James’s Park, three bowed Japanese figures—an old man, a young boy, and a girl. All who noticed them politely avoided interrupting.

“An exotic ritual,” a young woman in lilac whispered to her beau in pale blue.

Callum had forbidden Michiko to come. He had yelled at her and struck her. She had no idea why it bothered him so much that she was spending an hour, at most, with the old samurai and his remaining assistant.

Who cared.

She knelt down on the bridge beside the burning stick of incense the old samurai had brought, and tossed a small yellow flower into the water. It floated peacefully away.

Good-bye, Hayao. Little monkey. You will be missed.

Thank you for being my teacher.

You made me trust.

But most of all, you made me see the truth.

I am not a samurai.

I am Michiko.

And that is okay.

* * *

“
L
EATHER WOULD LOOK
fantastic and be very protective. You could even have a leather mask!”

Nellie shushed the Magician as they waited in the wings for their cue. She appreciated his enthusiasm for her new hobby, but this was not the moment. He nodded and mimed locking his lips together. Then he escorted her over to the large, ornamented trunk and held it open for her, extending his free hand to help her climb inside.

She stepped into it and curled up as she had done so many times before. The lid closed, and she was trapped in the black. It was a strange sensation after having been held prisoner in a grave, but she refused to let those evil men get the better of her. This was her home. This dark, cramped, but wonderful, space. In a moment the music would start, the drumroll would follow. And she would appear.

As if by magic.

Applause would fill the theater.

She felt good. She felt better than good. It was one thing saving the city. But performing? Nothing could top that kind of high.

Though . . . maybe she could add some glitter to the mask . . .

* * *

T
HEY LEFT THE
courthouse and passed through a flurry of reporters shouting questions at them. Barker, in front, cut a path as Lord White and Cora slipped into the carriage.

“Well,” his lordship said as the door closed. “I’ve learned my lesson: Never hire anyone ever again. No matter the breeding or connections. There’s no one out there I can rely on. Except you, of course.”

Cora nodded, but kept her focus out the window as the city passed them by.

“I
can
rely on you, can’t I? You’re not going to leave me, are you?” he asked when she didn’t speak.

She looked at him. He seemed sincerely worried, and she thought his concern was quite sweet. Of course, she wasn’t going to leave him.

But things were going to get a hell of a lot more complicated.

She hoped it didn’t put him out too much.

Then again, maybe it was time for a little payback? Time for him to be put out, just a little.

“No, don’t be silly,” she said. And he reached over and grabbed her hand. He almost looked tearful. Almost.

“I’m so glad. Mrs. Philips would really miss you if you went and . . .” He stopped. He sighed. “Oh, hang it all. I’d miss you, too. You’re my Girl Friday. You know that, right?”

Cora blinked. “What?”

“Girl Friday. You know the term. ‘Man Friday.’ Like in
Robinson Crusoe
. A person who’s always there to help. A person without whom I’d be lost. Only, of course, you’re a girl. . . not some island native . . .” Cora grinned. “Ah!” he said, noticing. “You like the name, then?”

“I do,” she said, feeling smugly satisfied. “I like the name a lot.”

* * *

T
HE NEXT WEEK,
an ad appeared in the morning newspaper. It was repeated that evening and the following day as well. It stayed in the paper a full week, until the citizens of London began to see it as commonplace. It was remarkable how quickly one could become accustomed to new things. How such things could become part of the fabric of one’s society, as if they’d always been.

For even legends must be told for a first time. By someone. Somewhere.

* * *

A
ND SO . . . IT
began.

* * *

T
O THE CITIZENS
of London and its surrounding Burroughs:

Are you being blackmailed? Does a loved one’s untimely demise seem suspiciously tied to a brother’s new bank account? Are you receiving threats of a personal and/or physically painful nature? Fear not, for salvation is at hand.

We are a trio of lady heroes. If you need us, we will be there. Respond to this advertisement by post, and we shall come to your aid.

We have many talents and skills. But above all things, we know how to assist.

Yours sincerely,

Hyde, the Silver Heart, and Lady Sparkle

AKA

The Friday Society

Credits

(OR HOW
A
DRIENNE COPES WITH ACKNOWLEDGING A RIDICULOUSLY LONG LIST OF AMAZING PEOPLE WHO HELPED
THE FRIDAY SOCIETY
GET TO WHERE IT IS TODAY)

Editor—Nancy Conescu

Publisher—Dial, Penguin

Agent—Jessica Regel (and the entire team at JVNLA)

Competitive Writing Colleagues—Joanna Blackman, Lesley Livingston

Samurai Gurus—Scott Leaver & Todd Campbell

Fight/Weapons Guru—RiotACT

Steampunk Guru—J. M. Frey

Naming and Logic Queen—Heather Dann

Brainstorming—Jonathan Llyr

Support Systems—TorKidLit, Steampunk Canada, Toronto Steampunk Society, AbsoluteWrite.com, VerlaKay.com, Backspace Writing Forum

Special thanks to Team Kress, without whom none of this would be possible, and who have faith in me even when I don’t. And who give me hugs whenever I need them.

Thanks to my extended family and to my brilliant and talented friends, all with shiny hair (or scalps, depending) who always make me feel special when I just feel like I’m crazy.

Lastly, thanks to my followers/likers and readers on various social media. You make procrastination extra fun.

N
O ANIMALS WERE HARMED IN THE CREATION OF THIS BOOK, THOUGH
A
TTICUS THE CAT DID HAVE TO BE LOCKED OUT OF THE OFFICE SEVERAL TIMES DUE TO HIS INABILITY TO STAY OUT OF THE GARBAGE CAN.
A
ND NOT NIP AT MY ANKLES.
A
ND NOT STOP SLOWLY PUSHING THINGS OFF MY DESK.
L
IKE MY GLASSES.
J
UST STOP PUSHING MY GLASSES OFF THE DESK, LITTLE DUDE.
S
ERIOUSLY.