Every Tuesday at precisely fifteen o'clock, Mrs. Evelyn Remmington met her sister, Mrs. Drucilla Blakely, at a tiny little tea shop at the corner of Piccadilly and Bond Street. The price of the tea was dear, and the dry cakes served with it left much to be desired, but they never once veered from tradition. Dru could ill-afford such an extravagance but had too much pride to suggest a less fashionable venue. Once, Evie had offered to pay for them both—for her, money was no object—but she never would again. Dru had been furious and humiliated.

So Evie pretended she didn't notice that her sister wore the same remade walking gown every Tuesday. In turn, Dru never mentioned the weight Evie hadn't needed to lose or her birdlike appetite. Neither ever brought up the other's husband, except to ask about his health. Instead, they spoke of nothing, exchanging pleasantries about the weather and the latest intrigue from the scandal papers. They'd never been particularly close, sharing little else in common besides their blood. Dru was fair and voluptuous, with the face and figure of an idyllic milkmaid. Evie was dark as a gypsy and bone thin, though she used to be pleasingly slender. No one would guess they were sisters. And ever since their respective marriages, they'd become little more than strangers. Their twice monthly get-togethers continued only out of a sense of familial obligation.

And yet, despite the distance between them, Dru was the closest thing to a friend Evie had. Her sister's goodbye kiss on the cheek was the only real affection she'd get this week.

Evie's autowheeler was waiting for her right outside the tea shop, letting out puffs of steam. The aether-powered vehicles had been introduced just over a year ago, and already, more than a hundred had been sold for a small fortune. Meanwhile, her husband's fortune had doubled, much to his delight. If he hadn't been before, now he could truly be counted among the richest men in England. And with every extra farthing he added to his coffers, he grew a little more arrogant, a little more overbearing.

As a woman, legally, Evie was not allowed to drive the autowheeler. But Evie didn't give a damn, and, as long as she took care to be discreet, neither did her husband. Besides, she'd invented the damn things, so she was better equipped to drive than anyone.

Normally, Evie enjoyed driving, but the fog was particularly heavy today, an intermittent drizzle making the roads slick and her clothes damp. Not for the first time, she wished she'd designed the autowheeler to be enclosed. But practicality was not her strong suit, and all she'd thought about was what the wind would feel like against her skin. It felt like freedom.

The traffic on Regent Street moved at a crawl, a combination of horse- and steam-powered vehicles. Hers was the only autowheeler, and if the weather were nicer, she would have drawn spectators. By the time she reached Regent's Park, a suburb that catered to the tastes of the nouveau riche, the skies had opened up and rain was coming down in sheets. Evie's clothes were soaked through, her once elegant coiffure plastered to her head. Her teeth chattered so hard they rattled her skull.

Bernard would be displeased. Her husband dressed like a dandy, spending more on his toilette than most men spent on their entire wardrobe. Evie was frequently disheveled, a hazard of her occupation. It drove Bernard wild when she emerged from her laboratory covered in soot or oil, the antithesis of the perfect aristocratic wife. But Bernard hadn't married her for her poise or beauty; he'd wanted her brains. And she'd made him very, very rich. In exchange, he let her tinker with her inventions to her heart's desire. It wasn't a partnership of equals, exactly, but it worked.

Davenford House sat on an enormous plot of land in the middle of Regent's Park. Owned for generations by the Viscount Wentworth, Davenford was the grandest home Evie had ever lived in. Her husband had bought it from the current viscount shortly after her first invention had taken off. It was a great scandal at the time; Bernard Remmington was not a member of the peerage, nor was his wife. The haute ton accepted them—with Bernard's money and influence, London's upper crust had no choice—but their presence was merely tolerated. Oh, they were invited to all the balls and soirees, but none of the ladies had ever made an earnest attempt to befriend Evie, and Bernard had cultivated his reputation as an eccentric too well. The men admired his genius, but never invited him into their confidence. They remained outsiders looking in.

She didn't try hard enough, according to Bernard. Her tongue was too sharp, and she was terrible at polite banter. Never mind that it was her inventions that opened the doors to high society in the first place. All he did was take credit for them. Sometimes she resented him for it, though she knew it wasn't his fault--he didn't dictate the rules of society.

Evie drove the autowheeler into the carriage house. They hadn't yet given up their coach-and-four, though they'd traded in the horses for their iron brethren. The iron horses still needed to be fed and watered, but they could go at twice the speed of an unaltered steed for twice as long. Out of habit, Evie gave them a pat on their steel-plated haunches before heading toward the main house.

Jeeves waited for her at the front door. "Welcome, Mrs. Remmington," he said in his tinny, monotone voice. He raised his arm to take her wet coat, but the gears were stuck, and he only managed to raise it halfway. "Oh dear," he said.

She smiled fondly at the butler. He was the first automaton she'd ever built—and in constant need of repair—but she was loath to give him up for one of the newer, sleeker models. Though he was made of cogs and gears and sprockets, he seemed to have developed a personality over the years. "Don't worry, Jeeves, I can hang my own coat. Come find me in the laboratory later, and I'll fix your arm for you."

"Thank you, Mrs. Remington," said Jeeves, spinning his torso 180 degrees and wheeling in the opposite direction.

She did need to get out of her wet clothes, and quickly. She could see herself in the large mirror that hung in the foyer, and she looked like a drowned cat. If Bernard caught her in this state, he'd fly into a temper. Her husband was the sort of man who enjoyed any excuse to be angry. Evie picked up her skirts and hurried toward her bedroom on the third floor. If she were lucky, she'd be bathed and dressed before Bernard realized she'd returned from her visit with Dru.

Her maid was already drawing her bath, leaning over the clawfoot tub to pour in a splash of rose-scented oil, humming softly. Evie took a moment to study her. Henrietta was young and fresh-faced, with a smattering of freckles across her pert nose. Appealing in a wholesome sort of way, but not beautiful. And, unless Evie was mistaken, she was pregnant with Bernard's bastard.

Evie couldn't really blame Bernard for his infidelity. Theirs was a marriage of mutual benefit and (most of the time) respect, not passion. He'd ceased coming to her bed a long time ago. But impregnating Evie's own maid was beyond the pale. He knew how to prevent such things. Instead, he'd made a laughingstock of his wife in front of the servants.  She tried not to hate Henrietta for her part in it. Employment was hard to come by these days, as automatons took away jobs from humans. Bernard wouldn't have forced the girl, but perhaps she'd worried about the consequences of refusing her employer's advances.

Evie cleared her throat to alert the maid to her presence. Startled, the maid let out a small shriek, clapping her hands to her heart. "You gave me a fright!" Henrietta admonished. She clicked her tongue, taking in Evie's appearance. "Mistress, you're sopping wet. Let's get you out of those clothes before you catch your death of cold."

"Don't get your hopes up," Evie muttered under her breath. If Henrietta heard her, she pretended otherwise, helping Evie out of her wet garments with the ease of practice.

"Oh, Mrs. Remmington," Henrietta said softly, those cornflower blue eyes filled with concern.

Evie could not stand to be pitied—not by her of all people. Self-consciously, she covered as much of her nakedness as she could with her hands. "Leave me," she said, more harshly than she'd intended to. Henrietta hesitated, then ducked her head and scurried from the room.

Evie sank into the warm bath with a sigh, allowing herself a few moments of relaxation. It had been a while since she'd washed her own hair. Her marriage to Bernard was supposed to provide her the freedom she'd craved, and instead, she'd never felt more trapped. She'd given up everything for a laboratory.

Evie bathed as she did everything else—thoroughly and efficiently, her daydreaming cut short as soon as she reached for the soap. After she stepped out of the tub and dried herself off, she eschewed a corset and chose an unobjectionable day gown, one of the few that still fit. Unfortunately, the tiny pearl buttons were impossible to do up herself, and she was forced to ring for Henrietta to come back and help her.

"Where is my husband?" she asked the maid, watching the color drain from her face. A better woman wouldn't have enjoyed her discomfort, but Evie was no saint. She would talk to Bernard tonight about Henrietta, tell him the maid could keep her position so long as she stayed out of Evie's sight.

"H-he's in the master bedroom, ma'am," Henrietta stuttered nervously.

Is that where he fucked you? she wanted to ask. In the same four-poster bed where we consummated our marriage? Did he tell you he loved you? Evie's hands clenched into fists by her side. She didn't begrudge Bernard his affairs, but if he were in love with another woman...

"Ma'am?"

Evie blinked. How long had she been standing there, staring into nothing? "It's nothing. Away with you, girl."

Her face still pale, Henrietta bobbed a quick curtsy and made her exit.

Bernard's chambers were on the opposite end of the house. It wasn't fashionable to share a room with one' s own husband, but the distance between their rooms was cause for gossip among the human servants. When they'd first moved into Davenford, a year after they married, Bernard told her he was only trying to spare her—he claimed a recent bout of night terrors would prevent her sleep. It could have been true; he'd lasted an entire week fighting for king and country before one of Napoleon's golems put a bullet through his leg, ending his illustrious military career. On the day Bernard was shot, the French battalion—a hundred mechanical golems piloted by half as many men—mowed down a thousand British soldiers. Reading stories of the carnage in the newspapers was nightmarish enough.

Now, Evie suspected Bernard had wanted the distance so he could conduct his amorous affairs under his own roof. Henrietta was not the first, nor was she likely to be the last. But Henrietta was the only one that hurt, threatening to destroy the platonic affection between them. And though they no longer pretended their marriage had been a love match, Evie refused to be disrespected in her own home. There were limits to what she was willing to endure.

Steeling herself for an argument, Evie rapped the door knocker against its brass plate. Then rapped again when Bernard didn't answer. Perhaps Henrietta had been mistaken about his whereabouts. Frowning, she tested the door to see if it was locked and easily pushed it open.

And nearly tripped over her husband's prone body.

Evie swallowed a scream and dropped to her knees beside him. He lay face down on the floor, naked as the day he was born. A dark stain seeped out into the carpet beneath him. Was he breathing? She felt for his pulse, touching wet warmth. Bernard's blood. Her stomach roiled. But there it was—a faint, sluggish pulse.  He wasn't dead yet.

Yet being the operative word. With a great deal of grunting and groaning, she managed to flip Bernard on to his back. And gasped in horror, flinging herself away from him.

How many times had he been stabbed? His stomach was a pulpy mess, his intestines spilling into his hands. Blood oozed in a steady stream of crimson from his stab wounds, pooling at his navel. Her eyes swept down his torso to his pelvis, her gorge rising in her throat. She was going to be ill. Someone had cut off his bollox.

"Oh, Bernard," she whispered. Evie did not need to be a surgeon to know he was beyond saving. Fighting back her revulsion, she reached for his clammy hand. She wouldn't wish this fate on her worst enemy. She'd loved him once, and realized, as he lay here dying, she loved him still. Besides Dru, he was her dearest friend, albeit not always a very good one.

His eyelids fluttered open. "Evie," he rasped, wheezing as he tried to draw air.

"Hush, Bernard," she said softly. "Don't strain yourself."

"No!" he said, with more force than she would have thought possible. "Need. You. Listen." He squeezed his eyes shut, as though gathering the last of his energy. "Don't. Trust. Griffin." A shudder racked through him. "Find—" he started, and then his eyes went wide, his entire body convulsing. Evie squeezed his hand tightly.

When he finally collapsed, he was dead.

A/N: I wrote a thing! I'm planning to make this story my "Nanowrimo" novel (I put it in quotes because in order to get anywhere close to 50K words I need to start erm, now). In the midst of a steampunk obsession, so want to take advantage while the writer bug is a-biting. Look forward to your thoughts!