The Ill-Fated Fortunes of a Steampunk Madam I: Crow

The urgent shrieks of the parlor crows drew Madam Fiona to the oddly-shaped room's deep bay window. The sheer curtains that billowed softly in the sunny autumn breeze were just thin enough to let the daylight through. This filled the room with a soft, diffused glow that Fiona found comforting. They were thin enough, too, to let her observe the cause of the crows' disturbance.

A battered old steamcar was bumping slowly up the gravel lane toward the Old Hilltop House, leaving a trail of dust and water vapor in its wake.

The shap snap of wings sounded near her shoulder as a large black corvid settled on the back of the chair next to the window. "That will be Mrs. Leonard," the madam said to her feathered companion, one age-spotted hand reaching up to stroke the bird's inky black chest. "But...today is the ninteenth. She always comes on the first."

The recipient of her affections muttered in that way that crows do, and Fiona looked to see which of her fine feathered friends was currently serving as her interlocutor. It was Oliver. Of course it was Oliver. It was almost always Oliver. "Pretty boy," she coaxed with warm affection, hoping today would be the day he chose to reply.

It was not. Oliver continued muttering, but offered forth no words, either of wisdom or of warning.

She stroked his magnificient chest with the back of her fleshy right hand's fingers. "You'll speak again when you're ready."

Together, they watched Mrs. Leonard's steamcar struggle over the gravel drive until, at last, the timid old woman arrived in front of the house, parked, and stomped a gasping shriek out of the steamcar's parking brake. The crow got one more stroke before Madam Fiona moved to exit the parlor. "Wait inside," she told Oliver as she stepped through the parlor's open archway and into the foyer. "I must prepare the reading room for Mrs. Leonard's visit."

Oliver's sharp caw-caw-caw! was accompanied by the rustle of wings as he fluttered gracelessly up to the rafters to whisper and mutter with the rest of the murder.

It wasn't long before Fiona's butler -- a tall and deceptively bland-looking gentleman who went by the name Caster -- escorted the stooped and shuffling Mrs. Leonard into the reading room. He allowed the little old lady one of his steady arms as he used the other to pull out an elegantly carved chair from the small table in the center of the small and cozy little nook of space where Madam Fiona worked.

Mrs. Leonard thanked Caster for his help as she settled into the chair's comfortable upholstery. Almost immediately, a kitten the color of a jar of fresh marmalade jumped up into her lap. "Oh! Well, hello there." The woman's spindly fingers began to stroke the kitten, who promptly made itself at home in the silk of her skirted lap.

Fiona smiled at the happiness the old woman displayed. The simple affections of a kitten were a powerful magic all of their own. She poured tea for Mrs. Leonard, and then herself, before she selected from among the sandwiches, scones, and baked goods on a three-tiered service. "How are things for you this month, Mrs. Leonard? How is your husband?"

"Oh, the tea smells so lovely." Mrs. Leonard's voice was like the whisper of sheet music, soft, crisp, and distinct. "Things are...not so good," she said after her first sip from her own cup. "I cannot shake this feeling that he's hiding something from me."

"The same feelings we were talking about last time? That suggests that there wasn't a special anniversary surprise." Madam Fiona felt a frown of confusion wrinkle her brow. She had been certain that Mr. Leonard's "furtive behaviors" -- as reported by his wife -- were centered largely around some grand surprise for the couple's 50th wedding anniversary.

Mrs. Leonard filled her thoughtful hesitation by filling her own tea plate with an assortment of goodies, no two the same. "There was very much a surprise. All of the children came in and the whole family took a trip to Lake Cormynth. It's where we would vacation in the summer when the children were young. We hadn't been in...oh, it must be twenty or more years! It was lovely to see the children and the grandchildren. But he and I both agreed, later once we were home, that lake trips are for young families, not couples in their 70s with seven children and twenty three grand-children!"

The two women shared a chuckle over this assessment, and passed a quiet, comfortable few moments indulging in the tea that Caster had so expertly prepared for them.

"I've been dreaming of murder," Mrs. Leonard finally offered, looking down at the scone she was smearing with clotted cream.

Madam Fiona looked at Mrs. Leonard's hands, and noticed that they were shaking slightly with the confession. "This is very interesting," Fiona said in a tone that was deliberately light and sincerely interested. "Of course you remember the long talks that we've had about how dreams speak to us in symbols. And even frightening dreams are just us talking to ourselves about the things that are important."

"Yes." Mrs. Leonard nodded, and repeated herself with more confidence. "Yes, I remember. And it was comforting when I woke up, as well. And I wrote it out, just like you said I should, as soon as I woke, and in the present tense like it was happening in that moment. So I remember the dreams all quite clearly now."

"Good! Very good! You see, now, practice does pay off."

"It doesn't make the dreams more comfortable, but it does make the memories more comfortable. I don't know if that makes sense." She paused and steadied herself with a sip of tea. "What bothers me about the dreams is that it's always me murdering myself. The perspective changes. Sometimes I'm seeing it as if I'm the me that's being murdered. Sometimes I see it as if I'm the one murdering myself. And sometimes...." she trailed off, unable or simply unwilling to finish the thought.

After waiting a moment for her to go on, Fiona finally hazarded her own guess. "And sometimes...you are a witness as you watch you murder yourself." Her voice was quiet and respectful, but she would not allow one of her clients to hide from things that could help them.

Mrs. Leonard gave a slow, hesitant nod.

A warm smile spread across Fiona's lips and melted into her voice. "Well. Then we have a place to start. These sorts of dreams are usually indications of changing relationships. When we are murdered, then we feel guilty over the relationship. When we are the murderer, then we are initiating the change. And when we witness the murder, it shows that we feel disconnected from the changing relationship."

As she spoke, the madam observed slow changes in Mrs. Leonard as the old woman's interest and curiosity overtook her fear. She ate, she drank, she listened attentively. This was, in Fiona's opinion, a good sign. It was never a good idea to invite fear into a consultation. "Whenever you feel ready, Mrs. Leonard, I'll have Caster clear the table, and we can begin the reading."

Mrs. Leonard took her last sip of tea, laid her napkin across the crumbs on her plate, and folded her hands in her lap. She met Madam Fiona's gaze with an unwavering gaze. "I am ready."