Up and Coming: Stories by the 2016 Campbell-Eligible Authors

Edge of The Unknown

Originally Published By Broken Eye Books in the anthology GHOST IN THE COGS

It was a beautiful home. A home with red brick on the outside and a bright blue door. The wisteria and ivy climbing up one side perfectly manicured, and the gate to the front always shines with recent polish. To the society of Primrose Hill, it is known as a proper finishing school for young ladies. They delicately march through the blue front door each morning. It is said that the owner of the building, Miss Iesult Greensleeves, taught her charges all the most important things. How to make a proper social introductions on Hyde Park’s Mechanical Promenade. Which forks to use, and when. Which gloves are appropriate at what occasion, whether or not it is acceptable to use steam powered gadgets to entertain ones guests.

The truth of the matter would certainly curl the neighbors’ hair into perfect ringlets.

Miss Greensleeves’s Finishing School for Young Witches is no more a place for learning about tea service than it is a place to learn about how to turn one’s husband into a newt.

In the parlor, her charges all dressed appropriately in day dresses, each in a different pastel shade. Their bonnets set aside, their hair coiffed in the most recent styles. And each one of them has a wand in their lap and a teacup in their hand. The girls range in age from at youngest, ten, to the eldest, a sixteen-year old witch. Surrounded by prim and frilly flowers, an owlish young lady sat in the corner, her giant spectacles perched upon her nose as she reads the latest Strand magazine. Unlike the rest, she was dressed in a simple tan gown. The others twittered and gossiped about their promenade in Hyde Park, discussing the latest addition: The Steam Carousel which moved faster than any other carousel in the world. She sat apart, reading by herself.

As soon as Miss Greensleeves stepped into the parlor, she counted under her breath to be sure that all her charges were in attendance. She dressed in a deep blue skirt, bustle, and vest and a white high-necked lace blouse. She strode purposefully to the front of the room. With a snap of her fingers, a small tea cart rolled into the room, tiny puffs of steam emanating from the back of it to propel it across the floor.

“Good morning, ladies. I hope that you are all well rested from the weekend. As you know, your final examinations for the year are coming up, as is the Season. Some of you will no longer be with us after that time as we hope you will have been presented at court and will have met a husband.” The room burst into a flurry of giggles, except for the owl in the corner. “There will be a few different exams: one in comportment, one in spellcraft, and, of course, one in surreptitious casting. The final piece of your work—" The owl in the corner let out a scream. It was a howl of mourning, keening.

It was accompanied by the Strand magazine bursting into flames in her hands.

“He killed him!” She shrieked, waving her hands around.

“Miss Harper, I beg your pardon?” Miss Greensleeves turned her violet eyes upon the owl in the corner, giving her a name. “I’m not sure what the parliamentary vote upon human robotic experimentation could have anything to do with death, no one has been experimented upon yet.”

“He’s dead.” She began to cry, her sobs summoning a raincloud above her head, a roll of thunder coming out from it as she gasped. “He got thrown off of a waterfall and he’s dead.”

“Miss Penelope Harper, if you could recall your cloud, we can talk about this like reasonable witches. It’s not polite to storm inside.” Miss Greensleeves was pulling her wand out of her sleeve and casting a spell to quickly waterproof the entire room—if that raincloud began to storm any harder she’d have the mechanics in here for another month fixing the security systems.

Miss Harper sniffed loudly and pulled a handkerchief out from inside the ruffles of her dress, wiping the tears off her cheeks. The raincloud stopped thundering and raining but did not dissipate.

“Miss Greensleeves, I know you’re a fan, as well. And we both know…” another deep intake of breath before speaking, “We both know that killing the Great Detective by throwing him off of a cliff is entirely unreasonable.”

The room went still with only few nos and gasps from wide-eyed, disbelieving witches.

Miss Greensleeves spoke very gravely. “Our special guest for the séance portion of your exam is none other than Sir Arthur.”

Penelope Harper’s eyes were already quite large behind the giant magnification of her spectacles, but it seemed as though they grew three times larger as realization dawned. “You don’t mean…”

“I do. You see, Sir Arthur may think he can kill off the character and leave us all to mourn the man who never lived.” Miss Greensleeves took a breath and then smiled. All of the young girls shrank back. When Miss Greensleeves smiled, no one wanted to know what she was planning. “But I’m sure with a bit of spiritual mussing about we might be able to show him why he shouldn’t have killed him.”

“But does that mean that we have to make it look like it’s not real?” Beatrix St. John spoke next, her blue eyes sparkling with curiosity. “You mean we can do whatever we want, as long as it seems as though we’ve made it all up?”

“I want to scare the shirt off of him, make him think Sherlock Holmes has come back to haunt him and make him pick up a pen again.” Miss Harper spoke, reaching her hand up and tossing the cloud into nothingness.

Miss Greensleeves nodded in the direction of Miss Harper and waved a hand. A few books flew off the shelves throughout the parlor, a few more flew down from the upstairs. “These should help you understand the tactics that charlatans use. We can build some props and integrate a few new spells into the security system.”

The pastel enruffled witches flocked to the book stacks, one girl shouting “I’ll write to the Fox Sisters,” while another snatched a book entitled Communicating Through the Veil and another grabbed a book on demonology.

The witches of London were ready to do battle in the parlor on behalf of their favorite detective.

A few weeks later, a swirl of evening dresses and tambourines bustled through the foyer.

“Ladies!” Miss Greensleeves’s Irish accent rang out from the top of the staircase. She was gowned in a soft lavender evening dress, a simple strand of pearls at her throat. The girls were dressed in froths of satin and lace. Even Miss Harper had traded her brown plaid for an emerald green evening gown, a golden locket at her throat. “As you all know, our guests will be here in one hour to participate in the séance. Since there will be non-magical attendees, you know you cannot use a wand for any spellcasting.”

“Wands are for show anyhow,” piped up Harriet Featherstone.

“Very good,” Miss Greensleeves replied. “Now, who is on what piece of the séance?”

Miss Harper stepped forward. “Miss Beatrix and I will be leading the séance.” Beatrix held up a clapper in one hand, to show she could knock on the table while holding hands.

“Miss Nessie and I are working on keeping the circle of protection up from inside the classroom upstairs,” volunteered Miss Featherstone “We thought it would be best to have additional support in case the security system is still rusty.”

Another pair of girls held up a can of phosphorus and the copy of the Strand.

“I’m making sure that none of our guests have any spells which would tell them we’re working illusions,” Miss Jean said. “Oh, and I’ll be taking coats, of course. Good hosting and all.”

“A reminder to all of you that Mr. Bentley is an inventor under suspicion from the Crown. Do not under any circumstances allow him to escort you home. While he might be a gentleman, his manners about experimenting upon people are utterly atrocious.”

The room fell silent, all the young ladies nodding in acknowledgement. No one wanted to become a experiment. Marrying an inventor had its perks of course—being able to talk about all the latest inventions with fluency was certainly a benefit, but the possibility of arriving to an event at the Season with a brand new robotic arm might be seen as amiss.

The time had come. The young ladies all swept to their places. Some sipped at champagne in the parlor, and others lit frankincense and myrrh in the workshop.

Mr. Bentley stepped through the door in his tuxedo, and offered little mechanical corgis to each of the ladies in attendance. Miss Harper set hers on the ground and pressed the button for it to start, resulting in high pitched yapping and rusted tail wagging. The security system began to fweep in alarm, unaware of the newest mechanical device in the building. With a sheepish smile, Miss Harper turned her new friend off in order to avoid trouble.

All but one of the guests had arrived—the most important guest—and Miss Greensleeves stepped to the door and opened it just as the final knock came.

“Sir Arthur, what a pleasure to have you here for our séance. Some of my young ladies are fans of your work.”

He ambled in, allowing the pretty young lady to take his coat and whisk it off to the coat room. Sir Arthur gave Miss Greensleeves a smile and a nod, kind words of thanks for a warm welcome. “Well, I hope they aren’t too angry about the most recent issue.” He muttered through his mustache, “There’ve been riots outside of the Strand, you know.”

Iesult feigned surprise and shock. “Oh, I’m so sorry. It must be terribly frustrating to have an authorial choice so challenged by the public. Well, I hope our little diversion can be of some assistance in cheering you. I know you’re quite a fan of the spiritualist movement. My young ladies have been studying it avidly, hoping to learn how to be proper and spiritualist at the same time.” She leaned in conspiratorially, “None of that American ‘free love’ nonsense, though. I promise you that.”

The Americans were always a good way to show that you were better and more poised than others. As an Irishwoman, she took points where she could score them

“If you’ll come with me into the parlor, we can begin.”

Sir Arthur followed as she led him to a seat at the circular table. The twelve participants were ready to take their seats.

“I’d like to introduce Miss Penelope Harper, who will be leading our séance tonight.” Miss Greensleeves gestured genteelly to Penelope, who took her seat. Everyone followed suit.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” Miss Harper spoke before pushing her spectacles up on her nose. “This evening, I’m going to ask that we all hold hands. Palms up, if you please.”

From another participant, a giggle and a blush as she took the hand of Mr. Bentley. For an inventor potentially hiding out and turning people into part robot he seemed awfully well dressed.

Penelope sent a speedy glare in the direction of her classmate before fluttering her eyes shut. “Mr. Jeeves, if you could bring down the lights?” The gas lamps automatically lowered. (Not by the power of a butler, though, but rather by the power of a spell bound up in the mechanical security system triggered by the words Mr. Jeeves. Witches are tricky like that.)

“Please close your eyes, ladies and gentlemen, “She began. As soon as all eyes were closed, the room sank into darkness. Stealthily, young ladies moved into the room, levitating a few objects onto the table and then floating out of the room without a sound. Flicking her eyes over to her fellow witch, Beatrix, Miss Harper squeezed her hand and began. “O spirits, we ask if any of you has a message for us? Can you knock on the table? Knock once if you have a message for us and twice if you do not.”

The table shook with a resounding knock. Only one. From below the table, a small steam powered knocker responded to vocal cues through a nifty bit of spell work.

“Very well, is there any one person to whom this message is directed?” A single knock again. “If you could place a marker in front of the individual the message is for, we will open our eyes in five seconds.”

With the participants' eyes still closed, one of the girls helping put on the show lifted a small glowing orb out of nothing and blew it onto the table. It floated in front of Sir Arthur’s face, making his moustache cast eerie shadows onto the table.

“You may open your eyes,” Penelope intoned. She had to shove a self-satisfied cackle down as Sir Arthur’s eyes grew as wide as plates.

“For…" he choked out, “for me?”

“If everyone could please continue to hold hands. Please, do not break the circle.” Penelope spoke softly, working her intentions on everyone in the room. The witches present wouldn’t be able to let go of each other’s hands if they wanted to. “Sir, have you lost anyone dear to you recently?”

“No. No, I haven’t.” Sir Arthur sounded convinced, as though he was completely unaware of the many hearts he had broken with his prose.

“How curious.” She smiled. “Well, we shall just have to find out who it is.”

With a rumble, the table shifted and shook, the feeling of an angry spirit filling the room (or in this case, teenaged witchy hormones), and the table and all of the chairs lifted a foot off of the ground.

“Well, this spirit certainly wants our attention,” Penelope said calmly while the rest of the séance-goers began to struggle in fear, hanging on to each other’s hands for dear life. “Oh spirit, might you tell us who you are?”

On that cue, the walls flashed for a moment, red writing appearing on the walls. “You killed me, Arthur Conan Doyle.”

Doyle’s eyes got even wider, his face marked in pure disbelief.

“This cannot be, this is…Miss Greensleeves, are your students pranking me?”

And then a copy of the Strand magazine appeared in the middle of the table before bursting into green flames.

The table began to spin round and round before the whole dining set slammed down to the ground in a huff.

The participants began to scream, still clinging to each other’s hands, trailing off when a firm, ticked-off British gentleman’s voice spoke throughout the room.

“I am the man who never lived and can never die, Arthur Conan Doyle. You will bring me back or face the consequences of damning me to uncertain fictional hell.”

With that, Miss Harper allowed the attendees to release hands. While Beatrix was making eyes at Mr. Bentley, choosing to risk matrimony to an illegal robotics inventor over common sense, Miss Harper rose, watching Sir Arthur Conan Doyle grab at the scraps of air that once were the Strand. He sputtered and threw his hands in the air.

“Riots! My mother writing to inform me that I have done the wrong thing! The queen is even angry with me, and now…my own creation tells me I can’t kill him?! Fine. I’ll write more. I will. But you’re mine, Holmes. I made you, and I can bury you!”

The only response to Doyle’s shouting fit was a low chuckle in the same tone as the disembodied voice.

Doyle fled the School for Young Witches, and the girls followed, watching as he and the rest of the guests all scurried away. Some even left their greatcoats behind. The gaggle of girls in evening gowns circled around in the foyer and looked questioningly at their headmistress.

“Did we pass, Miss Greensleeves?” asked Miss Harper, her eyes gleaming with triumph.

“Oh, we’ll just have to wait and see if you’ve successfully terrified the man into writing again.”

A few weeks later, when the Strand announced a return of the Sherlock Holmes stories, a young lady (Miss Harper, to be precise) sitting in the middle of the Hyde Park Mechanical Promenade shrieked from her carriage with glee and shouted across to another, “We did it! We saved Sherlock Holmes!”

Witches will meddle with anything, even publishing.