Beauty and Beastly: Steampunk Beauty and the Beast (Steampunk Fairy Tales) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1: Bonjour

  Chapter 2: LeBoeuf

  Chapter 3: Love’s Bloom

  Chapter 4: The Prospero

  Chapter 5: The Mirror

  Chapter 6: The Tempest

  Chapter 7: Shipwrecked

  Chapter 8: The Island

  Chapter 9: Arrested Perfection

  Chapter 10: Bittersweet Reunions

  Chapter 11: The Lord and the Airship

  Chapter 12: Farewell

  Chapter 13: The Great Escape

  Chapter 14: Into the Green

  Chapter 15: Surely, He Has a Screw Loose

  Chapter 16: Be Our Guest

  Chapter 17: Almost Kind

  Chapter 18: Tempting Morgan le Fay

  Chapter 19: Windup

  Chapter 20: The Library

  Chapter 21: Mirror, Mirror

  Chapter 22: Matilda

  Chapter 23: Clandestine Affairs

  Chapter 24: Reunions

  Chapter 25: A Tale as Old As Time

  Chapter 26: Tylwyth Teg

  Chapter 27: Say Something

  Chapter 28: Into the Clouds

  Chapter 29: Really, Gerard?

  Chapter 30: 154

  Chapter 31: We Have to Go Back

  Chapter 32: The Deirdre

  Chapter 33: The Key to My Heart

  Chapter 34: Happily Ever After, Of Course

  Epilogue

  Beauty and Beastly

  Steampunk Beauty and the Beast

  Steampunk Fairy Tales

  Melanie Karsak

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  Beauty and Beastly: Steampunk Beauty and the Beast

  Steampunk Fairy Tales

  Clockpunk Press, 2017

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced without permission from the author. This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed are fictional. Any resemblances to the living or dead are purely coincidental.

  Published by Clockpunk Press

  Editing by Becky Stephens Editing

  Proofreading by Siren Editing

  Novel Description

  In this tale as old as time, Isabelle Hawking must tinker a solution to a heartbreaking mystery.

  WHEN ISABELLE HAWKING and her papa set out from London on a sea voyage, Isabelle is thrilled. Visiting foreign courts, learning from master tinkers, and studying mechanicals is her dream. And it doesn't hurt that the trip also offers Isabelle an escape from her overbearing and unwanted suitor, Gerard LeBoeuf.

  But Isabelle never arrives. Swept up in a tempest, her ship is lost.

  Isabelle survives the storm only to be shipwrecked on a seemingly-deserted island. The magical place, dotted with standing stones, faerie mounds, and a crumbling castle, hints of an ancient past. Isabelle may be an unwilling guest, but her arrival marks a new beginning for the beastly residents of this forgotten land.

  See how NY Times bestselling author Melanie Karsak puts a steampunk spin on the classic Beauty and the Beast fairy tale.

  Dedication

  In loving memory of Edward and Margaret Kernick

  Chapter 1: Bonjour

  “Isabelle, are you coming?”

  My heels clicking on the cobblestone, I hurried behind Papa as I made the last few notes in my journal. The London streets were packed. A group of young airship jockeys, each jostling the other around, bumped into me as they passed. My fountain pen went skidding across the page, blotting ink on my sketch.

  “Blast,” I cursed, glaring.

  “So sorry, miss,” a young airship captain said. “Are you headed to the market? May I buy you a new journal?”

  I frowned at him, suddenly wondering if it had been an accident.

  “No. No, thank you,” I said. I slipped my pen into its holder hidden amongst the flowers and feathers on my tiny lady’s top hat and tucked my book into my basket. Grabbing the skirt of my blue gown, I hurried to catch up to Papa as he made his way through the massive arch at the entrance of the Hungerford Market.

  I found my father reading over his shopping list and dodging oncoming shoppers as we entered the busy market.

  “Know what you’re after?” he asked distractedly as he ran his finger down his list.

  “Yes, Papa. The trick is not finding too many things.”

  He chuckled. “Indeed. Indeed. At Hungerford Market, that is always a problem. I’m headed to Tinker’s Hall. You?”

  “Mister Denick first. I need some new reading materials for the trip. I’ll join you in the hall afterward. Keep an eye out for a glass cylinder for me? Two centimeters or so in length, smallest in circumference that you see?”

  “Of course,” Papa said, pinching my cheek.

  The market was bustling. Everywhere I looked I saw mechanics, tinkers, chemists, and airship crews. Aside from them were common folk hunting consumables and textiles. I gazed down the aisles. On this end of the market were the fishmongers, fruit and flower vendors, and butchers. On the far end of the market was Tinker’s Hall. While the hall sold all manner of wares for someone in our trade, it was also part social club for the London Tinkers Society of which Papa was a leading member. No doubt he would be lost for an hour or more hobnobbing with his peers. Waving to Papa, I turned and headed in the other direction to Antiquarians’ Hall where Mister Denick kept his bookshop.

  But first...

  “Good morning, Isabelle,” the baker called when he saw me. He was holding out a freshly-baked egg custard tart wrapped in parchment.

  I had to smile. Had I become so predictable? I suppose every Wednesday morning was the same as the Wednesday morning the week before. Papa and I left our workshop along the Thames at precisely eight thirty. We arrived at the Hungerford Market at 9:15. Papa always went to Tinker’s Hall. I always went to Mister Denick’s bookstore, stopping at the baker’s stall first for an egg custard tart. I’d peruse his wares, but like always, he had the same old things, and I bought the same tart. Every Wednesday it was the same routine. It was 9:17, and I was there for my egg custard.

  “Thank you, sir,” I said, pressing a coin into his hand in exchange. “Good day.”

  “And to you.”

  As I walked, I munched the tiny confection. The sweet taste of the buttery crust. The egg custard baked with a firm surface but soft, smooth, filling. The tart still warm from the baker’s oven. Perfection. This was why I never tried anything new. Why change what worked?

  “Hello, Isabelle,” Miss Ting called from her stall.

  I waved to her. “Good morning, Miss Ting.”

  “Need silk string today?” she asked.

  I shook my head. “All stocked up!”

  She waved happily.

  “Isabelle the beauty,” Mister White called then waved. The tobacco vendor, a massive pipe hanging from his mouth, was all smiles.

  I nodded politely then waved. Mister White was still under the impression that I should let his son woo me. I had decided it wasn’t my place to inform him that his son had eyes for Master Johnson’s apprentice, Tom. I turned the corner to Antiquarian’s Hall.

  Here, the place was less crowded. Well-dressed ladies and gentlemen perused fine artwork from early masters, estate furniture in need of a home, and other beautiful goods from years past.

  As I passed two well-dressed women, one of them whispered to her companion. They both looked at me then started giggling.

&nbs
p; I looked down at my dress only to see that my bodice was utterly covered in crumbles. When I went to wipe the custard crust mess off, I discovered my fingertips were stained black with ink. I really was quite the sight. I carefully brushed off the crumbs, working gingerly, so I didn’t get ink on my gown, then hurried to Mister Denick’s stall.

  A sign reading “The Great Library of Alexandria” hung above the door to his stall. Grinning happily, I went inside.

  “Ah, Isabelle,” Mister Denick said. “Come, come. Have a look,” he said, lifting a crate of books and setting it on the counter.

  I gasped. “All new? Wherever did you get them?” I asked as I unpacked the two books I had borrowed from Mister Denick last week.

  “A gentleman was auctioning off some books from the estate of Horace Walpole, the gentleman who owned Strawberry Hill out in Twickenham.”

  “The same gentleman who wrote The Castle of Otranto?”

  “The very same!” Mister Denick said, clapping his hands together excitedly. “I got this lot for a bargain. They went quickly, but there are some gems in here. Have a look.”

  I picked up each book carefully. Many of the books were written in Greek or Latin. There were a few obscure reads, one on Sumerian religions, another on Russian folklore, but then I spotted two that piqued my curiosity. “These,” I said, setting aside a book about goblins and another on mythical artifacts. “May I borrow them?”

  Mister Denick nodded. “Of course, of course. And, I found this for you at an auction on Monday,” he said, setting down a book with a blue leather spine. “It’s in Latin, but it chronicles the inventions of Hero of Alexandria.”

  Gasping, I picked up the book and flipped open the pages, my eyes resting on the description of a device called an aeolipile. “Oh, isn’t this amazing?” I gushed. Hero of Alexandria described a device unlike anything I had ever seen before. I hugged the book to my chest. “Thank you so much.”

  Master Denick laughed. “Of course, of course.”

  “I must keep this volume,” I said, gazing down at the book once more. “What are you asking for this gem?”

  “Nothing, my dear. But, if you have a few moments, my clock isn’t keeping the correct time again. And my lamp started flickering.”

  Grinning happily, I set my basket on the counter and pulled out the small toolkit from inside. “Lead the way.”

  Chapter 2: LeBoeuf

  It took about an hour to complete all the repairs. Finishing the lamp was easy, but repairing Mister Denick’s clock proved more difficult. It was the third time I’d worked on it. The antique beauty was simply wearing out. I always carried a few extra bits and bobs in my basket, which did the trick to keep it running for now, but he would soon need me to rework a section of the inner cogs and coils.

  “When Papa and I return from our trip, I’ll make a complete repair,” I said wiping my hands off on a rag.

  “As bad as that?” Mister Denick asked, eyeing the clock skeptically.

  “Rusted and old, that’s all.”

  “Ah! Just like me.”

  I chuckled.

  “I won’t see you again before your trip. I do wish you and your father a fair voyage.”

  “Thank you, sir. And again, thank you for the books.”

  The man bowed. “It’s my pleasure, Miss Hawking. I do believe you are the most well-read woman in London.”

  I laughed. “A compliment, I know, but I suspect it makes me a bit odd.”

  “Odd? Well, who likes ordinary anyway?”

  “True. Very true. And again, thank you,” I said, patting my basket which was now full of books. I headed back into the market following the aisles toward Tinker’s Hall.

  I wove through the labyrinth of stalls. The place was crowded, vendors and buyers haggling over the price of everything from eggs to art. Glad to get out of the general crowd, I breathed a sigh of relief when I arrived at Tinker’s Hall. There, the most ingenious craftsman, clockwork designers, engineers, fireworks vendors, and airship parts salesmen could be found. Tinker’s Hall was unlike anywhere else in London. It was a place where all the great masters gathered. From designing the next best airship to working on steam-powered vehicles to tinkering with automatons, this was the place everyone who had a heart for mechanics loved. Everyone, including me.

  I passed the replica of Tinker’s Tower at the entrance of the hall then went in search of my father.

  “Good morning, Miss Isabelle,” Budgie, one of the airship parts vendors, called. Budgie and my father were close friends. Long ago, my father had been one of the most well-noted airship designers in London. But an accident had cost him—and me—the one thing we valued most: my mother. My parents were ingenious airship designers, but with all new inventions, there was the potential for mistakes. A flaw in the design of an airship that my parents had invented resulted in the crash that had killed my mother. Since then, Papa never looked at, boarded, or even talked about airships.

  I waved to Budgie, eyeing the airship captain talking to Budgie’s assistant. The airship captain was a burly creature with rugged good looks, just the kind of man I’d be best to avoid. Airship captains were usually pirates, half-pirates, scoundrels, or company men. Given the proportions, on the whole, they were more bad than good.

  Moving on, I worked my way through the hall. At one stall, a man was working on a backpack rigged with some sort of booster engine. It looked like...someone was going to die, or, at least, set their trousers on fire. Another man was wearing goggles that amplified his eyes ten-fold as he worked on a tiny clockwork device. I paused and watched another master working on a velocipede attached to a glass globe. The two-wheeled machine was held stationary while a young man pedaled; the tinker adjusted some wires connected to the device. In fits and spurts, a glass globe flickered to life.

  “Hello, Miss Hawking,” a sultry voice whispered in my ear. A red rose suddenly appeared over my shoulder. “For you.”

  I exhaled heavily. “Hello, Gerard,” I said, stepping away. The smell of cologne nearly overwhelmed me. I tried to plaster on a fake smile, but failed. I turned to find Gerard LeBoeuf standing far too close to me.

  He pressed the rose toward me again. “Please, ma cherie. For the most beautiful girl in London.”

  I bit the inside of my cheek and debated. It was far easier to accept the gift rather than put up with the display he’d put on if I didn’t. Besides, it was just a rose. What harm could a single rose cause? And while I had no interest in Gerard LeBoeuf, I wouldn’t be cruel. He was an enthusiastic suitor. And, given he was also the most gifted cartographer in the realm, he was a man of some quality. Unfortunately, his merits weren’t what I was looking for in a man. I wanted someone reserved: quiet, considerate, even a bit shy. I wanted someone the complete opposite of Gerard LeBoeuf. “Thank you, Gerard,” I said politely. “That’s very kind of you.”

  He smiled happily, a glimmer of hope in his eyes. He turned to look at the velocipede. “Fascinating, isn’t it?” he said, nodding with his chin toward the device. He set his hand on my shoulder and moved close to me once more. “See there,” he added, pointing. “The friction from the velocipede moves through the conductor and—”

  “Yes, Gerard. I understood. It is very fascinating. Now, if you will excuse me, I should find Papa,” I said then turned away, heading back into the hall.

  To my horror, he followed me. “So, I understand you and Master Hawking are going on a trip. Scotland, is it? Or was it Ireland? How could you leave without telling me? What will I do without seeing your beautiful face every Wednesday?”

  I rolled my eyes. “I’m sure you will find something else to keep you distracted.” Namely, the next pretty woman who walked through the hall.

  “But Isabelle, there is no better distraction than you. I tell all my friends, ‘Wednesday is my favorite day of the week.’ And they ask me ‘Why?’ I tell them ‘Because Isabelle Hawking comes to Tinker’s Hall. She is the most beautiful girl in London. She has a cute little walk, hai
r brown as a chestnut, and big curious eyes. She is the perfect woman.’ They call me a man in love. Maybe I am. I don’t know. But I do know that sometimes Isabelle Hawking comes to Tinker’s Hall, and sometimes she even smiles at me,” he said, setting his hand on the small of my back. Well, not quite the small of my back somewhere a bit lower.

  Stopping, I frowned at him.

  “Alas. Not today.”

  “Kindly remove your hand,” I said, helping him move his paw from my backside. “No, not today. Not next week. Not next year. Now, if you please,” I said then turned and walked away.

  To my surprise, however, Gerard reached out for my hand. “Miss Hawking, please. I would die for you, don’t you see?”

  Gasping, surprised by the strength of his grasp and the firmness of grip, I twitched my fingers, activating a lever that caused a spring inside my ring, which was shaped like a hedgehog, to pop up. Needle-sharp spines pierced Gerard’s hand, fending off his unwanted touch.

  “Ouch!” Gerard said, pulling his hand back.

  I gave him a hard look.

  He laughed. “Oh, Miss Hawking, you are so clever,” he said as he sucked the blood from the wound between his thumb and forefinger. “You will put up a fight, eh? Not so easily won? Good! I need a woman with a spine of steel and skin like silk. You are perfect in every way, Isabelle Hawking. You must marry me, Isabelle. Say yes.”

  Gasping, I stared at him. “You must be joking.”

  Gerard laughed again. “Please, Isabelle. I love you!”

  At this point, I realized that several of the shoppers and vendors had stopped to watch the exchange. I exhaled deeply, feeling a flash of angry red burn in my cheeks then turned away from him. An elderly woman who was watching the exchange chuckled then winked at me. Glaring at Gerard, I handed the rose to her then stalked off.

  “Isabelle,” Gerard called.