Notes from a Day of Writing Steampunk
There is an irrefutable beauty to dallying in the fog of Victorian London, even if it is an alternate one.
I imagine myself drawn through a city in a horseless carriage, steam pumping from its pistons to merge with the grey, a flickering gaslight lighting the immediate space around us. I say us, for I am accompanied by the ghost of my fellow, and now deceased detective, Lord Ignatius Cuthbert; he wriggles within the glass bottle I conceal in my pocket. I have forgotten what it is like to be completely alone, he does not allow it.
We travel alongside the gurgling Thames; we cannot see it, but no other liquid leviathan could make such a hubbub. Our purpose remains unknown: Victoria is ever secretive these days. But whenever The Empress of India and half the known world calls, I answer, or rather, we.
Whatever runs through those blue veins of hers it is no longer blood, and it is waste to preempt any meeting. So, I don’t. Instead, I sit back and allow this unreality to sweep across my senses and attain that state of calm that I must if I am to aid Her Majesty in whatever it is she wishes, and regale you, my reader, with said tale. For I, Mortimer Headlock, fixer for an Albion past its prime, am ever on duty. Let villains beware. Let nations tremble. For I have returned, and these goggle-covered eyes have much wisdom to impart.