Hauntings and Humbug: A Steampunk Christmas Carol

1 Humbug

A chill wafted through the workshop, the frozen air making me quake to my very core. On the other side of our shared workbench, Bailey Cratchit, my apprentice, blew on her fingers. She sighed. Heavily. I knew it was cold. It was always cold. Hell, I couldn’t even feel my toes. But until the device was done, delivered, and payment received, I didn’t have a shilling to spare on extra coal. It was going to stay cold, or we would both end up on the street—whether she liked it or not.

The bell over the front door in the outer office chimed.

We both stilled.

“Missus Scrooge,” Cratchit whispered, a look of panic on her face. No one ever came in through the front. Ever. Our customers knew well enough to come through the back. And if the authorities decided to poke around, we’d both end up in a correction house.

I motioned to her to grab the drape lying nearby. Nodding, she turned and grabbed the fabric. With a hurried snap, she unfurled the cloth. I grabbed the end and helped her cover the machine on which we were working.

“Good afternoon. Hello? Anyone here? Mister Scrooge? Mister Marley?”

With an exasperated huff, I slid my goggles onto my head and pulled off my apron, tossing it onto the workbench.

“Do you want me—” Cratchit began.

“No. Keep the door closed. Stay quiet.”

Bailey nodded.

I headed to the front.

“Allo, ho, ho. Mister Scrooge? Are you in, sir?” a voice called again.

I opened the workshop door, entering the tiny office front. The place was covered in dust. I hadn’t used the space since Marley died. I stared at the two men standing there. They were festively dressed, both wearing red and green scarves with holly berries pinned to their lapels. The nip of cold had turned their noses red. A dusting of snowflakes decorated their clothes. I glanced outside. Snow was falling, and it was already dark. When had it gotten so late?

“What do you want?” I asked. I was on a tight deadline and in no mood for festive frivolities.

The two men looked at one another, each encouraging the other to speak with a wide array of annoying eye gesturing and head tilting.

I had almost reached the end of my patience when the squatter of the two began. “I apologize for the intrusion, madame. This is Scrooge and Marley’s Wonder and Marvels Studio, is it not? Is Mister Scrooge here? Mister Marley?”

“Mister Scrooge was last seen departing London by airship to India. If you have any luck locating him, then you’re far more fortunate than I have been. As for my partner, Missus Marley, you’ll locate her in Twickenham Cemetery. She’s not much a conversationalist these days, though.”

Their mouths gaping open, the men stared at me.

Idiots. “I am Missus Scrooge. This is my studio. What do you want?”

The second man, the taller of the two, wiped his nose with his scarf, then said, “Oh, madame, please forgive us. We have no wish to bring ill-tidings. In fact, quite the opposite. As the proprietor of this business, we were hoping you’d be willing to make a small contribution to our charity.”

“Charity?” I asked, raising an eyebrow. I eyed the men’s clothing, focusing on their boots around which the melted snow was now forming puddles on my floor. I frowned.

The rounder man nodded. “It’s the Christmas season, of course. So many people are in need. Won’t you help? Such a lively business you have…” he said, motioning to the faded images of carousels, spinning carts, and other amusements—all ghosts of my past—on the walls. “Carnival entertainments, isn’t it? Such lovely carousel horses. Such a whimsical work, Missus. Scrooge. You really must love children. Won’t you share a few pence to better the world for your fellow—”

I lifted my hand, silencing the man. “Do you see that behind you?”

The men turned around.

“See what, Missus Scrooge?” the first man asked.

“Right behind you.”

The second man turned. Apparently the brighter of the two, he eyed the door. Sighing, he motioned to his partner, who finally caught my meaning.

“Oh, please. Can I not move your tender heart with the milk of human kindness this holiday season, Missus. Scrooge? There are so many in need—” the round man was saying when the bell over the door rang once more.

Humbug! What was happening tonight? I still had work to finish.

My niece, Fawn, entered. Looking at Fawn was like looking at a duplicate of my dead sister: bouncing golden curls, bright blue eyes, and red cheeks. She was dressed in a striking scarlet-colored coat, holly berries trimming her white fur cap. She smiled mischievously at me.

“Happy Christmas Eve, Aunt,” she told me then turned to the solicitors. “Happy Christmas, gentlemen.”

Fawn crossed the room, her arms outstretched. “Dearest Aunt Ebony.”

Panic swept over me. I crossed my arms and stepped back, steeling myself to her.

She giggled at the sight. “Now, don’t be like that,” she said, grabbing my elbows. She leaned in and kissed both of my cheeks.

“Your nose is as cold as ice,” I complained.

She laughed once more. “Oh, but it’s so beautiful out there. Charles and I were caroling with friends. He stopped at the bakery for some fresh gingerbread. I told him I wanted to pop by for a moment. Now, where is Bailey? Bailey, are you here?” Fawn called, moving toward the workshop. “Bailey?”

“No. Get out of there,” I said. Taking Fawn by the arm, I pulled her back. “She’s working. We have a deadline.”

“Oh, Aunt. For what? No one is waiting on a carnival horse tonight. It’s Christmas Eve. Bailey? Are you there?”

The workshop door opened a crack, Bailey slipping out. “Is that you, Fawn?”

I frowned. “You have work to do, Missus Cratchit.”

“I—” Bailey began, stepping back toward the door.

“Oh, Aunt Ebony. Let me at least say hello,” Fawn said merrily then kissed Bailey on both cheeks. “Oh my word, your cheeks are as cold as my own. Is there no fire in the workshop?”

“Well…” Bailey began, but I gave her a hard look, and she let the sentence fall away.

“How are you? Your husband? The children?” Fawn asked Bailey.

Bailey smiled, but I saw a shadow behind her eyes.

“All is well,” Bailey said simply.

“Your husband, Robert, how is he recovering?” Fawn asked.

Bailey’s husband, Robert, drove a butcher’s cart. Some weeks back, there had been an accident, and the cart had tipped. Robert had broken his leg in the misfortune. Bailey hadn’t said much about it, but I’d assumed he was well. Surely she would have said otherwise if not.

“Well enough. We’re just trying to prevent the cold from setting in.”

Fawn nodded. “Yes. That’s right. Be sure to keep him warm. And little Tim?”

“As well as can be.”

I frowned. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen Bailey’s youngest boy, Timothy. A sickly, small lad, he had his own share of health troubles. From time to time, Bailey would run late for work on the boy’s account. A damned inconvenience, really.

Fawn turned to the solicitors once more. “Well, gentlemen, did my aunt give you even a half-pence?”

The men chuckled uncomfortably, giving one another a sidelong glances.

Fawn, knowing the answer, dipped into her fascinator. She took out a ridiculous amount of money and pressed it toward the men.

“Fawn,” I scolded her.

“Aunt, it’s the Christmas season,” she told me. “Look outside. Don’t you see all the merriment? Hear the carolers? It is a season of giving. Here you are, gentlemen.”

“Bless you, miss,” the chubby man told her.

“Bless you all,” the taller man said, nodding to Fawn, Bailey, and me.

“Humbug,” I grumbled under my breath.

Fawn giggled. “Oh, you. Always on with ‘humbug.’”

I looked at the solicitors. “Well, you got what you want. Be on your way.”

“Bless you, miss,” the first man told Fawn again.

“Bless you,” the second one told Fawn as well then turned to me. “Merry Christmas, Missus Scrooge.”

“Humbug,” I replied, gesturing toward the door, but not before I gave Fawn a wink.

At that, Fawn rolled her eyes.

When the men opened the door, a frigid breeze wafted in, carrying snowflakes along with it. Outside, I caught the dulcet tones of people singing “Silent Night.” Ugh. Miserable. If there was one holiday I’d be very happy to skip, it was Christmas. I was glad I hadn’t realized it was so late. At least Christmas Eve was almost over.

“Now,” Fawn said, taking my hand. “Goodness. You’re freezing. Really, Aunt Ebony, you must put more coal on. As I was about to say, Charles and I are expecting you for Christmas tea tomorrow. Oh, and you should stop by tonight. We are having a small gathering of close friends to play games and for dancing. Won’t you join us?”

I would rather die. “I’m afraid I can’t. As I mentioned, we are very busy.”

The hurt look on Fawn’s face surprised me. She scrunched up her eyebrows the same way my sister used to do. “On Christmas Eve? With what?”

“As I said, we have an order that will be collected in the morning. We need to complete it tonight.”

“Well, you can still come for tea tomorrow, can’t you? Charles’ parents will be there, as well as some of his other relatives. It would mean a lot to me if I had someone there,” she said, and this time, I heard the strain of pain hidden in her voice. I knew what it felt like to be all alone in the world. In fact, I knew it better than anyone.

“We’ll see.”

“All right,” Fawn said gently.

Bailey set a comforting hand on Fawn’s arm. “You know your aunt. I already tried to invite her to my home. She’ll have nothing to do with Christmas.”

“Bloody waste of time and money. People would do well to remember that they will be hungry the day after Christmas too. Wasting all of their wealth on pudding and trimmings and a roasted goose for a few days of frivolity. It’s nonsense. Humbug.”

“Oh, Aunt Ebony,” Fawn said with a light laugh that was the mirror of my dear sister’s. The resemblance was practically unbearable. “Now, you will come for Christmas tea. That is the last argument I’ll hear from you. I’m off to catch Charles and see if it’s not too late to get a mince pie,” Fawn said then turned to Bailey once more. “Happy Christmas, Bailey, to you and yours.”

“And to you, Fawn.”

With a wave, Fawn turned and headed back outside.

“Humbug,” I grumbled in her wake.

Once more, Bailey sighed.

I pulled out my pocket watch. “I’m sick of listening to you sigh. They’ll be here to pick up the package first thing in the morning. Until we get it done, there’s no use huffing and puffing. Back to work.”

“Yes, Missus Scrooge,” Bailey said then headed back into the workshop.

After she’d gone, I crossed the room and stood beside the wide table at which two chairs—one on each side—were placed. I gently set my fingers on Jacqueline’s seat. It had been three years since my partner, Jacqueline Marley, had died. Three years. Nothing had been the same since then.

Turning, I looked out the frost-trimmed window to the square outside. Carolers moved from business to business, the merry lot singing gladly. A crowd surrounded a vendor who was selling wassail. Shoppers rushed to and fro with bright packages, baskets, and boxes full of baked goods, or clutched papers filled with roasted nuts. Even from here, I could catch the scent of the roasted walnuts on the breeze.

“Missus Scrooge,” Bailey called from the back.

“Yes?”

“I thought maybe you’d like to have a look at the automatic’s attachment. I think it’s right, but we’d better test it.”

I set my fingertips on the glass, glancing once more at the holiday revelry outside, and then headed back into the workshop.

Bailey was standing at the bench. She’d uncovered the automaton lying on the workbench and was working on the weapon’s package we had attached to the left hand of the metal monstrosity we’d named Dickens.

“Very well,” I said. I removed a metal compartment from the machine’s head then activated the switch therein. Bailey and I stepped back as the automaton clicked and hummed as it sprang to life. A moment later, its eyes glowed blue.

“Dickens,” I commanded the automaton who turned its head toward me. “Stand.”

Shifting its legs, the machine slowly lifted itself to standing.

Satisfied with the fluidity of the moments, I nodded then went to inspect the weapon Bailey had been working on. Pulling down my goggles and switching to the magnification lenses, I looked over the modified device. Bailey had become a meticulous tinkerer. She had originally worked with Marley and me on the complex mechanics of the clockwork carousels. But when the business dried up, Marley had kept us out of debtor’s prison by finding an alternative avenue for cash flow. Bailey came along for the ride. As it turned out, Bailey’s talented fingers did just as good a job building mechanized automatons as they had carnival delights.

I nodded. “You’ve done well.”

“Not well enough. The arms still need some adjusting. He’s lifting unevenly,” Bailey told me, setting her hands on her hips as she considered the automaton standing before us.

“Lift your arms,” I told the machine.

It complied.

Bailey was right, but the error was practically imperceptible to the naked eye.

“You work on that. I have some work to do with the arsenal feeder,” I told Bailey then turned back to the machine. “Dickens, remain standing but power down.”

The clockwork mechanics inside the machine clicked, and then the blue lights went out.

Bailey got to work on the arms, whereas I went to the back of the automaton to check the weapons cache. The alignment had to be perfect, or the automatic rifle would not fire properly. Grabbing my toolbelt, I tied it on once more then opened the back panel of the automaton and got to work.

Bailey and I fussed with the machine for the next two hours. The clock had just struck seven when we finished in tandem.

“Finally finished,” Bailey called with a relieved huff.

I slid the panel back into place. “The same.”

“Should we have him fire a few shots just to be sure?” Bailey suggested.

“Dickens, power on,” I told the automaton. Once more, the machine activated. “Now, come,” I added, waving for it to follow me to the back of the room. The old building in which we worked had a workspace large enough to hold a full carousel.

Its feet tromping heavily, the automaton followed along behind me.

“Bring the nutcracker,” I told Bailey. At the back of the workshop was a life-sized wooden nutcracker Marley had once carved to serve as a decoration for a display that we had made for a show at the Lyceum. It had been sitting gathering dust until Bailey and I found a better use for it.

Grabbing the dolly, Bailey hauled the heavy piece into place, setting it with its back against the stone wall on the far side of the room. Once it was set up, she returned once more, standing behind the automaton and me.

“All right, you tin can, let’s see what you can do,” I told the machine. “Dickens, activate weapon.”

The automaton clicked then raised its arm.

“Acquire target. Nutcracker.”

The machine’s blue eyes closed for a moment, reopening once more with blaring red light. Its gaze centered on the nutcracker, the two optics closing in on the nutcracker’s face.

“Short burst. Fire,” I told the machine.

Cogs and gears clicked as the automatic weapon readied itself. Bailey and I both covered our ears. A moment later, the machine shot a quick burst of bullets toward the wooden dummy. A cloud of dust surrounded the nutcracker for a moment.

Bailey and I waited.

“Good. Dickens, return to the workbench and power down,” I told the machine.

The automaton lowered its arm. Its eyes flickered blue once more. Walking with a stiff clatter, it returned to the workbench and sat back down. Swinging its legs onto the bench once more, it lay down. I heard a click as the machine turned itself off, its eyes going dim once more.

With the machine powered down, Bailey and I headed across the room to investigate the damage.

The nutcracker had taken most of the hits to the head, but a few stray bullets had hit the wall behind the target, which had caused the cloud of powdered mortar. Bailey inspected the stray shots.

“Looks like a variation of thirty centimeters or so,” she reported.

I nodded. “Acceptable. I warned the buyer about the accuracy. All right, Missus Cratchit. That will do. I will meet with the customer in the morning. Tidy up your tools and be on your way.”

“Thank you, Missus Scrooge.”

“I expect you to be on time on Boxing Day. I don’t care if the banks are off. We are not bankers.”

“Of course, Missus Scrooge. I do hope you’ll reconsider about tomorrow. Robert and I would love for you to join us for Christmas. I hate to think you’ll be alone. The children haven’t seen you for—”

“Yes. All right. We’ll see. There is still work to be done after we get this metal beast off our hands.”

“Very well,” Bailey said with a sigh then began putting her tools away.

At least Bailey had better sense of when to tie her tongue than my niece. Working quickly and quietly, she finished her work then pulled on her coat and hat. As she slipped on her gloves, she smiled at me.

“I won’t wish you a Merry Christmas,” she told me. “How about a simple goodnight?”

I huffed a laugh. “Goodnight, Missus Cratchit.”

“Goodnight, Missus Scrooge.”

At that, she headed to the front.

“Lock the door behind you.”

“Of course.”

A moment later, I heard the bell above the door ring then the sound of the key in the lock. And then, finally, there was silence.

I sat down on the stool beside the workbench, turned up the light on the gaslamp, and then lifted the automaton’s hand. Slipping on my magnification goggles, I tightened the tiny clockwork devices one last time.

Just as I was settling in, a noise at the back of the workshop startled me.

Pulling off my goggles, I grabbed a pistol I had hidden under the workbench and headed into the back of the darkened workshop. My ears pricking for any sound, I listened. But there was nothing.

I hoisted my lantern and scanned all around, finally discovering the matter.

The ropes that had been holding a tarp had come loose. The massive throw that had covered the stock in the back of the room had slid to the floor. Bailey must have bumped it when she moved the nutcracker.

For the first time in years, I stood staring at the clockwork carousel horses sitting there. Their colorful paint was faded, but their jewel-like eyes sparkled in the lamplight.

A lifetime’s worth of work and dreams sat before me.

Memories wanted to insist themselves upon me, but then, I remembered Marley’s words.

“When we were young, we were dreamers. Now we are awake to the truth of the world. It is a cold, hard, and lonely place. Only those who are willing to do what it takes can survive. Dreams are for fools,” she’d told me the day we’d hauled all of the carnival materials to the back and covered them—keeping them only for spare parts.

I stared at the emerald-green eyes of a pretty clockwork pony. I had loved making it, loved watching it work. On the carousel, its legs would gallop, the head tilting side to side. It had been one of my best creations.

Sighing, I lowered the lamp and turned back.

“Humbug,” I huffed, but I wasn’t sure at what. My absent partner. The pony. The dream. Or that old dreamer.