Figary walked down the central aisle. “Commodore, it is so good to see you vertical and breathing.”
“It takes more than an army to kill me,” said Malarkey. “Now, as to your mission. Is it safe for me to be abroad? Are the bluebottles on my tail? What is the talk of the town?”
“Why, you are the talk of then entire city,” replied Figary. “Your heroic river battle. They are saying King Otto slayed the dragon. They are saying King Otto sent the demon back to hell. King Otto saved the Empire.”
Otto nodded, satisfied. “That is no more than the truth of it, I suppose. Anything further?”
“Tea shirts,” said Figary.
Chevie frowned. “T-shirts?”
Riley sat beside her on the stage. “Tea shirts. A kind of very starched formal shirt, worn by waiters in the Savoy tearooms and such.”
Figary continued his transmission of the news. “A fellow is printing your portrait on tea shirts, selling them all over the West End. A lovely likeness it is, Commodore; captures your locks perfect, so it does.”
“Tea shirts, is it?” said Malarkey. “What an idea.”
“You deserve it, Otto,” gushed Witmeyer, and it was probably her first gush. “You are a hero.”
“Chevie should have a tea shirt,” said Riley. “She was the one who actually did the deed and not just the speechifying.”
This reminded Figary of the speech. “Ah, yes, the famous oration. Also printed on the tea shirts.” He coughed dramatically. “‘Look upon my works, ye mighty, and despair.’ Quoting Shelley, Commodore. Very nice use of irony.”
“Irony?” said Malarkey. “No irony whatsoever, Figary. I wanted the government coves to take a good look and remember who saved the city.”
“Anyway, Commodore, to answer your initial question: you are no fugitive, sir. I think if the law laid a finger on you, the people would rise up in revolution.”
Chevie flinched. She did not like the word revolution.
“And what of my wayward men?” asked Malarkey. This was the important question. Civilians could refer to him as King Otto till Judgment Day, but without the Rams behind him, he was no more a king than the dozens of King Henrys locked up in London’s asylums.
Figary’s hands became more animated, flapping like a magician’s doves. “Your men, Commodore. Those fools—forgive me, but those idiots saw the error of their ways. I paid the Hidey-Hole a visit, and there they were, like a bunch of rats sopping from the catacombs. Touching my hem, they were. Begging for my favor. My favor, if you please, after the same buckos tried to run me out of the place on the occasion of my previous visit. You need to hop a cab over there posthaste, Commodore. They are polishing your throne, so they are.”
Malarkey puffed and preened. “Well, that is indeed good news, though those gulpy dupes don’t deserve me.”
Witmeyer had a suggestion. “Perhaps we should string up a few, make an example.”
“Ah no, my dear, though I am tempted, but now is the time for mercy. Have I not slain the dragon? That is example enough. Let us forgive and forget old quarrels and step into the future together.”
“Nicely said, Commodore. And nicely put. This young lady is having a positive influence.”
“This is your new mistress, Figary. Mademoiselle Witmeyer, from the future. Show her to the carriage, would you?”
“It would be my pleasure,” said Figary. He bowed to Witmeyer, then extended his elbow toward her so that she might link it. Witmeyer, who was familiar with this move only as an offensive jab, presumed she was being attacked and had the butler pinned on the floor faster than he could say so it would.
“Do not hurt him, my dear,” said Malarkey. “He does a bang-up roast on the Sabbath. And he can get bloodstains out of anything.”
Malarkey held out his hand to Riley for a shake. “Considering all the shenanigans we have endured together, Ramlet, I am inclined to let you operate without taxation but with protection.”
Riley clenched Otto’s massive paw and shook it with heartfelt thanks and relief.
“Thanks, Your Majesty. I feels as though I could hug you.”
Malarkey frowned. “I is the Ram king, lad. And I only hug my queen. Any attempts to embrace me will be firmly rebuffed.”
Chevie winked at the Ram king. “He has protection. The best thing you can do is leave us alone.”
“I will stay away until I am needed,” conceded the Ram king. “But if you do have need, send a runner to Figary in Grosvenor Square and I will fly to your sides. King Otto is never too busy for his friends.”
This was a good offer indeed from Malarkey, and even Chevie had to almost not scowl.
“We are still not friends, Otto,” she said. “But I am less inclined to knock your block off.”
“Good enough, girl,” said Otto. “For one day only, I shall tolerate your sauce.”
“Keep that one out of my way,” Chevie added, nodding at Witmeyer, who was straightening Figary’s coat. “And sleep with one eye open.”
Malarkey sighed. “So that I may gaze upon her?”
“No, so that you may watch your throne. Your sweetheart has a dark past.”
“That all be in the future, as it were.”
Figary was recovering from his brief ordeal. “Manhandling, is it? Missus Figary’s boy did not risk his life crossing the channel to get himself manhandled, so he didn’t.”
Lunka Witmeyer actually apologized. First gushing, now apologizing. “I am sorry, strange little fairy man. I see now that you were attempting to be courteous. I am not accustomed to courtesy in my line of work.”
Figary thought rightly that it would be wise to accept this ham-handed apology. “Think nothing of it. And what line of work would that be, madam?”
Witmeyer shrugged. “Oh, the usual. Murder, intimidation, some torture. But I usually delegate that.”
“I understand completely, so I do,” said Figary with a straight face. “Torture is so cruel.”
“No, it’s the mess. I don’t mind the cruelty.”
Figary knew then that he would have to tread very carefully with his master’s new lady love, or Missus Figary’s son could wake up dead some morning. He recalled a fortune-telling gypsy at Puck Fair warning him that he would meet a dark stranger at some unspecified point; he had laughed.
But now that I think on it, did not an owl hoot as Madam Tea Leaf made the prediction?
There had been an owl, and as any devotee of the psychic knew, and owl’s hoot during a reading was the spirit world’s seal of approval.
This is the dark stranger.
She wasn’t really dark, but she was standing in the shadows a bit, and that would do.
“Madam,” he said. “I am about to extend my elbow toward you so that I may escort you to the carriage outside the theater.”
“Extend away,” said Witmeyer, who found this little man amusing, like a puppy, or a suspect listing imaginative reasons why he should not be interrogated. Her favorite had come from a suspected poet. He had admitted that he wrote poetry, but he claimed that his online reviews were so bad he could not technically be called a poet.
Another funny little man, just like this one.
Witmeyer laid a hand on the offered elbow and allowed herself to be escorted down the center aisle. She did not say good-bye to Savano or the boy Riley. There was only one person she cared about, and he was going to be by her side till the day he died. One way or another.
Malarkey took one long look around the theater, his gaze lingering on the spot where his brother Barnabus had fallen. It was some consolation that Farley had died horribly—but not much of one, if he was honest with himself.
“And here am I falling in love in the same week that my brother was murdered,” he said, and then pensively, “Look upon my works, ye mighty, and despair.”
“We don’t none
of us control our own hearts, King Otto,” said Riley.
Malarkey thought on this and decided that it was indeed true. “We do not, boy,” he said. “But we must follow them. And I must follow mine.”
He bowed deeply. “Remember, friends. Otto Malarkey is no more than a whistle away.”
And he walked swiftly after his beloved so that he might hold the carriage door for her—and ensure she did not kill Figary in response to some sudden movement.
Riley and Chevie sat on the stage, morosely finishing the last morsels of food. The first reason for their moroseness they shared, but in the second, they were direct opposites. The first reason was mutual post-traumatic depression, now that their adrenaline levels were dipping. As for the second, Riley believed that his pal Chevie would soon sling her hook off homeward, whereas Chevie knew this to be impossible, even if the phrase concerning hook-slinging was not in her vocabulary. Not yet, at any rate.
I could be learning a lot of new phrases, she thought.
“You’ll be off now,” said Riley eventually. “I understand for why you’re leaving, pal, but I am sad nonetheless. I have plenty of room here for you. Your own chamber, and so forth; plus, I am making inquiries viz a flush toilet, which a future gal like yourself would no doubt appreciate.”
Chevie dipped a hand under her shirt and pulled out the Timekey, which was, amazingly enough, still intact.
“Takes a bashing but keeps on flashing,” she said. “But the port has been destroyed. There’s no way home for me. I am afraid you’re stuck with me.”
“I am truly sorry, Chevie, on the one hand,” said Riley. “But on the other I am glad to have my dearest friend under my roof. Our roof, I should say. We are partners now.”
Chevie stuffed the pendant back inside her clothing. “I appreciate that, Riley. But if this is our home, you need to get someone working on that flush toilet. And indoors, if you don’t mind.”