Steamlust by Kristina Wright Page B

loose a powerful roar as his come filled her body.
    Finally he collapsed against her. The goggles she’d worn had slipped from her eyes and lay dangling around her neck. Her heart pounded so violently, the rhythm jostled the eyepieces against her chest.
    “I love you,” he said softly against her neck, pressing a kiss to the skin.
    “I love you as well, Captain.”
    Frederick pulled back, cupped her cheek in his hand and pressed a kiss to her nose. “This is no place for a lady.”
    She chuckled. “Thankfully, I’m not much of a lady.”
    Regret filled her as he slowly got back to his feet. They righted their clothing without speaking, but Miranda caught his small smile as he watched her. When they were once more presentable, she moved to take the goggles from her neck. He stopped her with a hand to hers.
    “Keep them. Give them back once I’ve returned.”
    She nodded. “See that you do return, Captain. All of you.”
    Miranda would never know what he was to say next. The shouts of men from the hallway drew both their attention.
When the door exploded inward, Miranda reacted on instinct. She was told later the assassin looked to be little more than a boy, a French spy who’d discovered their plans and reacted the only way he knew how. He needed to kill the captain of the enemy fleet to stop them from launching their attack.
    All Miranda could see in that moment was the pistol pointing at Frederick. It was an easy matter to step in the path of the bullet. She could understand why Frederick had done the same thing all those months ago. Her life for his—a simple exchange, happily made.
    The cries and screams could have been hers, or the assassin’s as the pursuing shipman tackled him to the floor. Miranda didn’t even try to fight the darkness as it overtook her. The last thing she was aware of was a soft voice by her ear.
    “Oh Mandy, what have you done?”

    Pain.
    The weight of her eyelids was too much for her to attempt to lift them, so Miranda didn’t bother. The throbbing of her head was matched only by the burning in her chest. She tried to shift and scratch at the discomfort, but something held her down. A strap? Hands?
    “Don’t move.”
    The name of the voice’s owner escaped her, but she sought comfort in it all the same.
    “You’re going to make it worse, Mandy.”
    Frederick? She forced her eyes open and was met by the sight of her lover’s smile. “Hello.”
    Swallowing, she tried to sit up once more. “What…?”
    “You were shot. Stupid girl, you stepped in front of a bullet.”
    Screams and tears, hot blood and cold steel. “I died?”

    Frederick pressed his hand to her newly formed metal breast, not yet covered by her corset. “Yes.”
    She shivered at the feeling of pressure, his hand where her heart used to be.
    “We’re a set now, love.” He leaned in and pressed a kiss to her forehead.
    Miranda closed her eyes and listened as their hearts beat in perfect sync.

MR. HARTLEY’S INFERNAL DEVICE
    Charlotte Stein

    I t’s quite a queer thing that he’s created. I must confess, I’ve never seen the like of it—and judging by the faces of the small crowd he’s gathered here in his front parlor, I’m quite certain they’ve never seen its kind either.
    It is similar to Mr. Tortoff’s traveling apparatus—the one so often seen galloping about the streets these days—and yet it has many differences. It is operated by steam valves, true, and a great turning maze of brass pipes and so forth, but it does not appear to have any movement about it.
    There are no wheels, no giant legs that creak and shiver and make their way through alleyways and between houses. And though it has a prettiness about it—stained glass panels, glittering like eyes and such—there is an ugliness, too. A sadness, much like the sadness that hangs over Mr. Hartley.
    Even now on the eve of this presentation—the final culmination of his work on this marvelous contraption—he looks mournful. Miserly,