Sunday, April 13, 2025
Sunday's Short Stack: The Pursuit of . . . by Courtney Milan
Summary:
The Worth Saga #2.5
What do a Black American soldier, invalided out at Yorktown, and a white British officer who deserted his post have in common? Quite a bit, actually.
•They attempted to kill each other the first time they met.
•They're liable to try again at some point in the five-hundred mile journey that they're inexplicably sharing.
•They are not falling in love with each other.
•They are not falling in love with each other.
•They are… Oh, no.
The Pursuit Of… is about a love affair between two men and the Declaration of Independence. It’s a novella of around 38,000 words.
Original Review April 2024:
Once again another new-to-me author. Well I aimed to make 2024 the year of the new-to-me authors and I'm off to flying start. I went looking for recs for either American Revolution or US Civil War eras because there just isn't enough for my liking, I even added in my rec request that I'd be willing to read a story from the enemy side of the Revolutionary War😉. Someone rec'd The Pursuit of. . . by Courtney Milan and though it is a novella prequel of her Worth Saga series that appears to be MF romances I decided I had to read this MM entry.
So glad I did!
Henry and John couldn't be more opposites for a variety of reasons, major one: John is a freedman Corporal in the Continental Army and Henry is a Captain(I believe that was his rank) in the British Army. Now I'm not going to list their differences other than the one that really made this novella sparkle: the cheese, the dreaded cheese that Henry seems to be lugging around that never seems to get better until suddenly one day it appears to, at least in the men's minds. Okay so that wasn't really a difference or the point that made the journey sparkle for me but it lead to just too many darn funny moments of convo that I couldn't ignore mentioning it. No the part that really sparkled for me was Henry's unending ability to talk, and talk and talk and then talk some more and the patience John had was . . . well it's more patience than I would've had in the circumstances😉. Today he would be diagnosed with ADHD but back then? Well he was just Henry and I loved every minute of it.
There's no way this pair could get their HEA, right? Under the circumstances and the social standards of the day it's impossible to even speculate but sometimes that is when HEAs are a must but will they get their's, well you have to read for yourself. If you're like me and not a MF reader anymore and know in your heart you most likely won't be checking out the author's Worth Saga(at least at this time in my reading journey but I'll definitely keep it on my TBR list) I definitely highly recommend giving this MM novella a chance because it's absolutely smashing and lovely.
RATING:
Yorktown, 1781
In the heat of battle, Corporal John Hunter could never differentiate between silence and absolute noise. Years had passed since his first engagement, but every time, the sheer discord of sound blended together. The cry of bugles sounding orders, the clash of bayonets, the rat-tat-tat of firearms somewhere in the distance, the hollow concussion of the cannons—each one of those things heralded someone’s doom. To take heed to any of it was to fall into fear. To fear was to make mistakes; to err was to die. No matter the odds, the sounds of battle were so overwhelming that they were no different than silence.
Yorktown was just like any other engagement.
Oh, the strategists might have begged to differ. There were more clouds, more night. Less frost than some of the battles he’d taken part in. Someone had talked prettily at them about how the freedom of this nascent nation was at stake and some other things John had listened to with his hands curling into fists. The colonies didn’t care about John’s freedom, so he returned the favor by not caring about theirs.
In the end, all battles were smoke and shit and death, and John’s only goal was to see the other side of this war without being forcibly acquainted with the Grim Reaper. Fight. Survive. Go home to his family. The most basic of needs.
The night was dark around him and his fellow infantrymen. The spiked branches of the abatis had left scratches on his arm; the charge up the scarp had John’s heart pounding.
They’d crept through the ditch and were approaching the final defenses of Redoubt Ten—a wall of sharp stakes, somewhat battered. A group of fools ahead of him was negotiating how best to storm the parapet. John held back. Apparently, the idiot in command of this maneuver wanted to lead the charge. Sutton, one of the other black men assigned to storm the redoubt, was hoisting him up.
Nothing to do but join them and hope for the best. Nothing to do but survive, fight, and return to his family before anything ill happened to them. Fight, survive—
John stilled, the chant in his head dying down.
There was a reason he let the background noise of battle fade to nothingness in his mind. It left room for wariness and suspicion. There. Behind them, back toward the abatis—there was a shadow.
It moved, man-shaped.
The person behind them was large and almost invisible, and he lay in wait. John’s comrades hadn’t noticed him. In their haste to get in, they’d all left themselves vulnerable.
All of them but him.
Damn it all to hell.
Silence and noise mingled in John’s head. Perhaps the gunfire from the feint on Fusiliers Redoubt a ways off was loud; perhaps it was nothing. Perhaps the man he saw screamed in defiance as John turned toward him; perhaps he was silent.
Fight. Survive… Damn it.
There was no hope for it. John couldn’t wait to see what would happen. He lowered his weapon, said a prayer for his sister, should his soul become irreparably detached from his body, and sprinted back toward the shadowed branches of the abatis.
The man’s head tilted. John braced himself, waiting for the man to fire a weapon or raise a blade, but instead the fellow just waited in silence. One second. Two.
John crashed into him at full speed, driving his shoulder into the man’s chest. God, the other man was huge. The impact traveled bruisingly through his body. Still, John wasn’t exactly tiny himself. They fell together, hitting the ground. It took one moment to get his bayonet into position, another to drive it forward, blade seeking the other man’s belly.
It didn’t make contact. Instead, the fellow hit John on the head with the butt of his musket. John’s head rang; he shook it, pushed the echoing pain aside, and rolled out of the way of the next bayonet strike.
There was no time to think, no time to come up with any plan except to survive the next instant, then the next. No room for fine blade work, either; John swung his musket like a staff.
The other man blocked the strike, and the force of gun barrel meeting gun barrel traveled up John’s arm. The battle had all but disappeared into a pinprick, into this moment between two men.
“God,” the other fellow said. “You’re strong.”
John refused to hear his words.
John had neither energy nor emotion to waste on conversation. Fight. Survive the war. Go back to Lizzie and Noah and his mother. He’d promised them he would—stupid promise, that—but he’d break the entire British Army before he broke that promise. Men who let their attention slip perished, and he had no intention of perishing. He gritted his teeth and tried to smash the other man’s head.
The other man ducked out of the way. “Nice weather for a siege, isn’t it?”
John’s almost perfect concentration slipped. What the devil was that supposed to mean? Nice weather for a siege? Did that mean the weather was good—it wasn’t—or that bad weather was preferable during a siege? And what did preferable even mean between the two of them? Siegers and the besieged had different preferences.
Ah, damn it.
This was why John couldn’t let himself listen to battle. Anything—everything—could be a distraction. He shook his head instead and threw his entire weight behind his next strike.
It wasn’t enough; the other man was taller and heavier, and their bayonets crossed once more. He was close enough to see features—stubble on cheeks, sharp nose, the glint of some distant bombardment reflected in the man’s eyes. They held their places for a moment, shoulders braced together, their heaving breaths temporarily synchronized.
“It’s your turn,” the man said with an unholy degree of cheer. “I remarked on the weather. Etiquette demands that you say something in return.”
For a moment, John stared at the fellow in utter confusion. “I’m bloody trying to kill you. This is a battle, not a ball.”
He pivoted on one foot, putting his entire back into whirling his weapon. This time he managed to whack the other man’s stomach. A blow—not a hard one, he hadn’t the space to gather momentum—but enough that the fellow grunted and staggered back a pace.
“Yes,” the man said, recovering his balance all too quickly, “true, completely true, we are trying to commit murder upon each other. That doesn’t mean that we need to be impolite about it.”
Fucking British. Would he call a halt to take tea, too?
“If you prefer,” the man continued, sidestepping another blow, “you could try, ‘Die, imperialist scum.’ The moniker is somewhat lacking in friendly appeal, but it has the benefit of being true. I own it; we are imperialist scum.”
What the hell?
“But aren’t we both?” The conversation, like the battle, seemed interminable. “You colonials are displacing natives as well. I will give you this point. You’d be quite right not to use that particular insult. It would be rather hypocritical.”
Not for John, it wouldn’t. His presence in this land could not be put down to any volition on the part of his black mother, who was the only ancestor the colonials counted. But now was not a time for the fine nuances of that particular discussion. It was not, in fact, the time for any discussion at all.
He swung his musket again, heard the crack of the weapon against the barrel of the other man’s musket.
“It just goes to show. Politics is obviously not a good choice of conversation among strangers, I suppose. My father always did say that, and damn his soul, he is occasionally right. What of books? Have you read anything recently?”
There were still a few soldiers making their way through the abatis, streaming past them. One went by now, glancing in their direction.
“Can’t we try to kill each other in silence?” John snuck out a foot, attempting to trip the other man. His enemy danced away.
“Ah, is that it?” The man brightened. “I see. You can’t fight and talk at the same time? My friend, Lieutenant Radley, was exactly the same way. I drove him mad, he used to say.”
Used to? Ha. As if anyone could ever become accustomed to this jibber-jabber.
“He died in battle,” the other man continued, “so possibly he was right. You probably shouldn’t listen to my advice on this score. I don’t have the best record.”
Their weapons crossed again.
“Except”—unbelievably, he was still talking—“I obviously should not have told you that. I’ve given away an important advantage. Damn it. My father was right again. ‘Think before you speak,’ he always used to say. I hate when my father is right.”
John didn’t want to think of this man as someone with family, with friends. War was hell enough when you were just killing nameless, faceless individuals.
There was nothing to do but get it over with as quickly as possible, before he started thinking of his enemy as a person.
He threw himself forward, caught the other man’s shoulder with his, and managed to send him off balance. A moment, just a moment; enough for John to clip his hand smartly with the butt of his musket. The weapon the man had been holding went flying. John hooked one foot around the man’s ankle; his opponent landed flat on his back. John pushed the tip of his blade into the man’s throat.
The man’s hands immediately shot above his head. “I surrender the redoubt!”
John froze in place. “Have you the authority to do that?”
“No,” the other man answered, “but let’s be honest, it’s only a matter of time, don’t you think? Excellent tactics on your part. I almost didn’t see you coming. Somebody ought to surrender it eventually. Why not me?”
“Sorry,” John said, and it was quite possibly the first time he’d ever apologized to an enemy on the battlefield. “I’m going to have to kill you.”
“Ah, well,” the other man said. “You know your duty. Be quick about it, if you must. Better me than you, don’t you think?”
Literally no other person had ever said that to John on the battlefield. John frowned down at the man in front of him, and…
And, oh Christ. He suddenly realized that he’d heard of this man. His friend Marcelo had mentioned something about encountering him before. British officer. Tall. Meaty. Blond. He’d chalked the tale up to campfire boasting. When he’d heard there was a madman who couldn’t stop talking, John had imagined something along the lines of a berserker, frothing at the mouth. He hadn’t expected a mere prattle-basket.
“I think it’s better me than you,” John said, frowning down at the man. “You can’t possibly agree.”
A flare from the battle reflected in the other man’s eyes, temporarily illuminating him. John didn’t want to see his face. He didn’t want to see the haunted expression in his eyes. He didn’t want to remember him as a person. He should never have let the clamor of battle give way to the sound of conversation, because he suspected that the tone of this man’s voice—all gravel and regret—would stay with him all the rest of his days.
“Don’t make me go back,” the man said, so at odds with his cheery conversation on politics. “I can’t go back to England. Dying is not my preferred form of non-return, but for the past months it’s the only one I’ve been able to think of.”
John tightened his grip on the musket. He couldn’t listen. He couldn’t think. In battle, he could only allow himself to be a husk, an automaton. Fight. Survive. Killing was a necessary part of war. He’d learned not to look too hard at his enemies, not to ask too many questions. He’d learned not to let himself dwell too much on the men who perished at the other end of his musket.
It was always a mistake to listen during battle. Here he was, hesitating, when it was either John or the man who’d asked him about books and the weather. He could make it painless—as painless as death by bayonet ever was.
The man gave him a sad smile. “It’s nice weather for dying, isn’t it?”
He was lying. He had to be lying. This was the sort of thing for a lying officer to do—to converse politely, as if manners meant a damned thing on the battlefield. John pushed his bayonet down a quarter inch.
“Go on,” the man said.
His permission made it even harder. John didn’t want to do it, but it was John or the prattle-basket, John or the prattle-basket, and John had come too far to perish now.
A bugle sounded.
John looked up into chaos. He could hear cheers, could see the lieutenant colonel in charge of this attack—Hamilton, was it not?—clapping one of the soldiers on the back. Ah, the idiot in command had survived storming the parapet after all. While John had been fighting, his fellow soldiers had stormed the redoubt and taken it.
It was done. They’d won.
He eased up on the bayonet. “It’s your lucky day. You’re a prisoner now, instead of a dead man.”
“No.” The man’s hand clasped around the musket barrel, holding the bayonet in place. “No. You have to do it.”
“What?” John stared at him.
“You have to do it,” the man instructed. “Do you understand? If you Americans take the redoubt, Yorktown falls. If Yorktown falls, the war is over. If you don’t kill me now, they’ll make me go back to Britain, and I can’t go back.”
“Can’t?” John swallowed and looked down.
“Can’t.” The man shut his eyes.
They’d called him a madman, and John had imagined a demon on the battlefield, not a man who talked of politics.
Perhaps it was mad to prefer death to a return to a place that could never be called home, but if that was madness, it was a madness John knew. He’d once been enslaved. He knew what it was like to yearn for freedom, to prefer death to a return to a state that robbed him of choice, of freedom, of humanity. The fellow was obviously given to dramatics. John doubted anything so horrid waited for him back in England. Still… He understood.
He didn’t want to have anything in common with a blond British officer…but he did.
He should take the man prisoner. Should call for reinforcements. Who knew what this man would do if John gave him the opportunity?
“I can’t go back,” the man said again.
John should never have listened. Damn it, damn it, damn it. He swore and threw down his weapon.
The man struggled, propping himself up on his elbows.
“Then don’t.” John took off his coat. “Here.” He held the garment out.
It wasn’t much—a bit tattered, and God knew what it smelled like; John couldn’t detect the stench any longer.
The man stared at it.
“It’s not red.” John shook the coat. “It’s a mess out there as it is. Get muddy enough and nobody will know who you are. If you don’t want to go back to Britain, turn into an American. You talk enough; I’m sure you can come up with a believable lie. Get out of here. Don’t go back.”
The man stared at him. “Why would you let me go? I’m the enemy.”
“Enemy?” John rolled his eyes. “Take a good look at me. I have little love for…what did you call them? The colonial brand of imperialist scum. I have no enemies, just people I fight on a battlefield.”
The officer sat up. Looked at John. John knew what he was seeing—not the broad shoulders, not the determination John knew flashed in his own eyes, nor the set of his square jaw. No, this blond prattler who talked of manners and politics would see only the brown of his skin.
John was an idiot to offer anything. But he knew too well what it was like to have no hope of help and to find it anyway.
Here, he thought to the woman at the well who had shaken her head, denying his existence to the man who sought John. John had crouched hidden behind the bushes until the threat had passed. She’d looked at him then. She hadn’t spoken; she’d only nodded and left, as if she hadn’t changed his life with that simple denial. Here. I’m paying you back for that after all.
“I don’t want to talk to you,” John said. “I don’t want to be your friend. I’ll kill you on the battlefield if I have to. But if you’re desperate enough to die, you’re desperate enough to abscond. If you don’t want to go back, get rid of your damned officer’s coat and take mine.”
The man stared up at him. He looked at the coat, at the musket that John had tossed aside.
Slowly, he took John’s coat. “I won’t forget this,” he said. “I’ll pay you back someday.”
John had heard that particular promise before. He’d heard it when he saved his father from being crushed by a falling mast. He’d heard it when he’d rescued another man in the Rhode Island First on the battlefield. Half the time, white men didn’t even bother with empty words to assuage their consciences—at least not to the likes of him. The other half? They never remembered their promises. They didn’t have to.
John shook his head. “Don’t bother.”
“John?” Elijah’s call came from further in. “John, is that you down there? Are you wounded?”
He turned, leaving the British officer alone with his coat. He was already faintly regretting his choice—the late-autumn night was cold enough that he’d want that coat before morning struck.
He would never see the man again.
In the dark of the night, the man had no idea what John even looked like. Even if it were day, he’d never be able to distinguish John from any other black man. White men rarely could.
“I’m Henry,” the officer called after him. “Henry Latham, at your service.”
Henry Latham no doubt thought he was an honorable fellow. He’d tell himself that one day he’d return the favor, just as he assiduously avoided contact with anyone who looked like John. There was little use puncturing his illusions.
John knew that the roll of his eyes was hidden by the night, so he took care to imbue an extra dose of sarcasm in his tone. “I’ll be sure to remember that.”
“John?” Elijah was coming closer. “John, are you well?”
“I’m alive,” John called in return. “Alive and unharmed.” His body was already protesting the unharmed designation, his shoulder twingeing, his head still hurting.
Ha. He had already forgotten the name. He’d never hear from the man again.
Once, the Worth family was one of the most respected in England.
Then the head of that family, the Earl of Chatford, was discovered to be the ringleader of a treasonous plot. He was stripped of his title and properties, and only escaped execution because he committed suicide. Anthony Worth, the eldest son, was also implicated--and while treason could not be proven, he was convicted of theft and ordered transported. That left the younger children--Judith, Camilla, Benedict, and Theresa--alone in the world, with no friends, no skills, no property, and no future.
Meanwhile, when Anthony Worth’s ship landed in Australia, he was no longer on board. He had vanished without a trace.
The Worth Saga is the story of the Worth family--all of them. I’m calling it the Worth Saga because while the series tells the story of the Worth family, not all the books in the series will be about Worth family members. It’s really the story of the Worth family, another family (not yet introduced), and a business conglomerate. Anything more would be spoilery.
There will be more books in the series than those listed above. She'll announce additional books as she finalize titles and covers.
Courtney Milan writes books about carriages, corsets, and smartwatches. Her books have received starred reviews in Publishers Weekly, Library Journal, and Booklist. She is a New York Times and a USA Today Bestseller.
Courtney pens a weekly newsletter about tea, books, and basically anything and everything else. Sign up for it here.
Before she started writing romance, Courtney got a graduate degree in theoretical physical chemistry from UC Berkeley. After that, just to shake things up, she went to law school at the University of Michigan and graduated summa cum laude. Then she did a handful of clerkships. She was a law professor for a while. She now writes full-time.
The Pursuit of . . . #2.5
The Worth Saga
Saturday, April 12, 2025
Saturday's Series Spotlight: Magic & Steam by CS Poe Part 1
The Engineer #1
Summary:1881—Special Agent Gillian Hamilton is a magic caster with the Federal Bureau of Magic and Steam. He’s sent to Shallow Grave, Arizona, to arrest a madman engineer known as Tinkerer, who’s responsible for blowing up half of Baltimore. Gillian has handled some of the worst criminals in the Bureau’s history, so this assignment shouldn’t be a problem. But even he’s taken aback by a run-in with the country’s most infamous outlaw, Gunner the Deadly.
Gunner is also stalking Shallow Grave in search of Tinkerer, who will stop at nothing to take control of the town’s silver mines. Neither Gillian nor Gunner are willing to let Tinkerer hurt more innocent people, so they agree to a very temporary partnership.
If facing illegal magic, Gatling gun contraptions, and a wild engineer in America’s frontier wasn’t enough trouble for a city boy, Gillian must also come to terms with the reality that he’s rather fond of his partner. But even if they live through this adventure, Gillian fears there’s no chance for love between a special agent and outlaw.
Based on the short story, "Gunner the Deadly." Entirely revised, newly expanded, and Book One in the exciting new steampunk series, Magic & Steam.
The Gangster #2
Summary:1881—Special Agent Gillian Hamilton, magic caster for the Federal Bureau of Magic and Steam, has recovered from injuries obtained while in Shallow Grave, Arizona. Now back in New York City, Gillian makes an arrest on New Year’s Eve that leads to information on a gangster, known only as Tick Tock, who’s perfected utilizing elemental magic ammunition. This report complicates Gillian’s holiday plans, specifically those with infamous outlaw, Gunner the Deadly, who promised they’d ring in 1882 together.
The two men stand on the cusp of a romance that needs to be explored intimately and privately. But when Gillian’s residence is broken into by a magical mechanical man who tries to murder him on behalf of Tick Tock, he and Gunner must immediately investigate the city’s ruthless street gangs before the illegal magic becomes a threat that cannot be contained.
This might be their most wild adventure yet, but criminal undergrounds can’t compare to the dangers of the heart. Gillian must balance his career in law enforcement with his love for a vigilante, or lose both entirely.
The novel-length follow-up to The Engineer, in the exciting new steampunk series, Magic & Steam.
The Engineer #1
October 10, 1881
The trch, trch, trch of Gatling gun rotating cylinders had been my only warning before the gunfire began. Bullets pierced the sun-bleached façade of the gambling hall behind me, and splintered wood rained down like an unexpected desert shower. I held on to my bowler, dove behind a nearby wagon, and scrambled up against the wheel. By way of defense, it offered little, but I desperately needed half a second to gather my bearings. I’d just entered Shallow Grave, Arizona, hadn’t even flashed my badge yet, and already I was being shot at.
I yanked my traveling goggles over my head and accidentally dropped them as another round of shooting began. Windows shattered, a woman’s scream echoed from a few storefronts to my right, and the scorched red earth around me billowed up in miniature dust storms where bullets became embedded in the packed clay.
I lifted the headband and over-ear receivers of my Personal Discussion Device from my neck and fitted them into place. I raised the handheld transducer, punched in a code on the brass buttons that would connect me to my director back in New York City, and waited for Loren Moore’s smooth tenor voice to answer.
But nothing happened.
I tried again.
Not even static.
“Send Gillian out West,” I said in a self-mocking tone. I attempted contact a final time, but it was in vain. “Milo Ferguson won’t stand a chance against him. Of course not. But the utter lack of basic amenities and technology?” More gunfire, and I winced before sliding down farther and trying to make myself as small a target as possible. “Gillian will love it.” I wrenched the band down to rest around my neck again, then rolled onto my belly to peer under the wagon.
There was a sudden crackle in the atmosphere—the snap of aether magic being activated. The sensation raised gooseflesh on my arms, and I recognized the spell for what it was.
Manufactured.
Illegal.
Not magic invoked by a caster like me, but by a physical weapon and someone with the wealth in which to afford its use.
And then three near-simultaneous shots fractured the air like seven years’ bad luck. No doubt that had come from a triple-barrel Waterbury pistol. But it didn’t line up with the intelligence the Bureau had on Milo Ferguson. Yes, he was wanted for his improper use of steam energy to power unregistered innovations, as well as his amassing of aether ammunition, but he hadn’t once owned a Waterbury pistol or Jordan rifle, the only two weapons capable of firing magic-laden bullets.
Ferguson was an engineer. And mad though he might be, he was gifted at any sort of construction that had a lethal edge to it. His inventions were what had recently taken out half of Baltimore. His self-designed, magic-compatible monstrosities of brass and copper and iron were why I had been directed by the Bureau and the President of the United States to haul ass to Arizona territory.
So the shots in retaliation to the Gatling gun hadn’t come from Ferguson. They’d come from yet another individual hell-bent on breaking the law. And me with only one pair of handcuffs and no idea where the town jail was located….
I watched from underneath the wagon as a pair of black-clad legs—presumably the Waterbury owner—ran by like the hounds from Hell were giving chase. The man skidded to an abrupt stop in the middle of the dirt road, turned, and another shiver of manufactured magic creeped along my arms seconds before the Waterbury shot another triple round at a target somewhere out of sight to my left.
I scrambled to my hands and knees and moved into a crouch. Peering around the edge of the wagon, I raised a hand to shield my eyes from the setting sun and saw, standing against a fiery desert backdrop, a cowboy straight out of a dime novel. He was tall, like he could steal the stars from the sky at night. Not a big man—lithe was the word—but imposing nonetheless in head-to-toe black attire, including a Stetson hat hanging from his neck. He remained in a shooting pose and cocked the hammer on his Waterbury. But as the ammunition came to life for a third time, gunfire erupted from my left again and sent the cowboy running for cover.
Specifically, my wagon.
The Gangster #2
December 31, 1881
“Stop!” I shouted as I gave chase to Fat Frank Fishback through the chaotic fray of Manhattan’s Lower East Side.
Fishback—who was, in actuality, all arms and legs—skidded and slipped on the frozen cobblestones, righted himself, and made a sharp left toward a dilapidated tenement listing hard to one side. He shoved a big-boned woman from the open doorway and disappeared into the unsound structure.
“Sonofa—” I raced in the same direction, moved past the startled woman, and called a curt apology over my shoulder as I barged unwelcomed and unannounced through someone else’s home.
The interior was dark, and despite the night of winter already upon us, no lamps had been powered on. Steam piping had been installed throughout the Five Points earlier in the year, but it was obvious these people were too poor even for steam energy to light their home. The odds of finding an illegal syphon installed somewhere on the property in order to suck the teat of the city’s steam grid were quite good. The installation in the slums had created a point of serious contention with government officials and the Old Money of New York City. Strongly worded letters had been published in the newspapers proclaiming it a waste of taxpayer dollars to light the streets of the wretched. As if these folks chose to live in squalor.
But despite the opposition, City Hall went forward with the investment. Funding had passed in January, and it became a matter of New York wishing to assert its dominance over other major metropolitans in the United States. The desire to proclaim itself superior to the likes of Boston or D.C. was a hell of a driving force. The mayor had used Grand Central Depot as his selling point—if tourists felt like they’d entered the city through the doors of a palace, then even the most unfortunate among us must have access to the latest advances in steam technology.
Access and means being two entirely different points, of course.
But I digress.
I wasn’t here to chastise a too-full tenement of occupants barely earning enough to keep bread on the dinner table. I was here for Fishback. Nothing more.
I dodged the shadow of a resident coming out of a room, his curses now joining with the woman’s—a symphony of fury and protests left unanswered in my wake. I raced along an extended narrow hall, shoved off the far wall in order to make the tight turn down a second dark passage, shot up a short flight of stairs, and finally caught sight of Fishback when he opened a door exiting onto a side alley, his rail-thin body briefly illuminated by the kaleidoscope of urban nightlights.
“Stop right now!” I hollered.
Fishback gave me a triumphant expression, stepped outside, and slammed the door shut.
I didn’t slow my run, merely held an arm out, palm forward, and dipped into the ever-present elemental magic that encompassed Earth. The stream of raw energy churned and whipped at my request for its power, filled my body, and then erupted in a gale of wind. The whoosh of bitterly cold air blew the door off one rusted hinge and left it sagging like a broken wing. I ran outside, onto a set of rickety wooden stairs, hoisted myself over the banister, and jumped to the alley below.
I landed on the balls of my feet, shoes barely scratching a whisper from the cobblestones as magic aided me safely to the ground. But the door’s now-unfortunate state had been what startled Fishback. He straightened from the bent-over position he’d been in and spun around to face me. His chest heaved as he fought for breath the winter air had stolen. Fishback’s gaze flicked to the door and staircase behind me, and then his face blanched. His eyes grew wide. Panicked. Like a cornered animal ready to bite and scratch and claw until one of us was dead.
I had no illusions about my person. A man just shy of thirty, brown hair mottled with gray, a height and build hardly bigger than most women’s, and no weapon on hand. So no, it wasn’t my appearance that scared Fishback, a gangster known for squeezing the life out of coppers with his bare hands.
It was the technicality that I was not a copper. Special Agent Gillian Hamilton, active caster with the Federal Bureau of Magic and Steam, thank you very much. And it was my magic that had put the fear of God into Fishback.
“Fishback—” I started.
He turned on one heel and ran for the mouth of the alley.
“I said stop,” I yelled. I tugged the brim of my bowler down and started running again. “Federal Bureau of Magic and Steam, Fishback. You’re under—”
A glass bottle whizzed in front of me from the tenement on the left. I stumbled back a step to avoid being knocked out and turned my face away as it shattered against the outer wall of the building I’d just exited. Above me, the thrower shouted from an open window in a gravelly voice, “Magic pig in the alley!”
I broke into another sprint before a second bottle could hit its mark and slammed into the congested traffic of Baxter Street. All around me were unsupervised packs of children, stray dogs, wagons coming and going in either direction, and pushcarts everywhere, laws be damned, hawking the last of their oysters, knishes, and pickles before crowds dispersed for the evening. There were steam pipes crisscrossing building facades, rattling and pinging as residents powered on lamps and radiators. More metal tubing ran along the gutters of the streets, supplying steam energy to the yellow, red, and green streetlamps.
The voice from the window was still crying, “Magic pig! Right there.”
There’d been such volatile magic employed throughout the Great Rebellion that by the end of the war, Congress had enacted the Caster Regulation Act of 1865. On the surface, it aimed to bring the magic community out of hiding and make our intrinsic abilities legal to perform without fear of violence or jail time. But the finer details of the law required that every scholar—those who studied raw magic and documented the manmade spells—architect—the ones who fabricated the spells—and caster—those who performed the magic, such as myself—undergo mandatory documentation with the federal government. Keen and critical oversight of magic usage would protect soldiers and civilians alike from what happened during the war.
That’s how the Federal Bureau of Magic and Steam was founded.
I’d come forward when I was eighteen and applied to the regulation, but due to my atypical caster level, the Bureau jumped to offer me a job, a badge, and perhaps most importantly, respect. For the last decade, I had been doing my damnedest to represent the magic community, to educate citizens and eradicate detrimental old wives’ tales, all while upholding law and order in the city.
It was, to say the least, an ongoing campaign.
I dodged between two pushcarts and stepped onto the road, only to be abruptly cut off as three men moved to stand in front of me. Fishback disappeared into the throng of people.
“Step aside,” I ordered, pulling back the open lapels of my coats to show my badge.
They were all taller than me. Bulkier than me. With the sort of wicked smiles seen on men who used their fists to demand respect. The one on the left had his arms crossed over his barrel chest, with the stub of a smoking cigar clenched between his teeth. On the right was a man with a handlebar mustache and a badly set nose from a long-ago fight. In the middle was Tommy McCarthy, a known member of the Whyo gang that ran this neighborhood. He wore mechanical fighting gloves, the cogs spinning and pressure gauges releasing steam as he flexed his fingers.
“Look what we got here, boys,” McCarthy said. He smiled widely, showing off a broken canine. “A copper on our streets.”
“I’m not here for you, McCarthy.”
“Know who I am, do you?” The steam whistled as he made a fist with one glove. “Scared, ain’t ya?”
“No.”
McCarthy blinked almost comically, glanced at Cigar Stub and Broken Nose, then tried to regain his footing by saying, “You ought to be.”
“You’re interfering with official matters pertaining to the Federal Bureau of Magic and Steam, and I will arrest you if you don’t—”
“Arrest me?” McCarthy echoed with a bark of a laugh. “You ain’t even tall enough to suck my cock,” he replied, reaching down with one mechanical hand to cup himself through his trousers.
“I have no tolerance for your crude behavior. Step aside.”
Broken Nose pushed back the folds of his coat and unholstered a Waterbury pistol. He pointed the three-barreled weapon at my head and cocked the hammer. “How about I put a few bullets through your brain instead?”
As the aether was galvanized, manufactured magic snapped and crackled in the air around me. A strong jolt shot up my spine and I shook it off. It was merely a physical response to the illegal spell reaching out to interact with my own magic. But seeing that Waterbury—
An unkillable, deadeye marksman.
His finger pulling the trigger.
And blowing Milo Ferguson’s head off.
Those same fingers had held my chin just hours before while he whispered words that were seared into my bones like a cattle brand: It’ll remind me of you—
No.
Thunder rumbled from overhead.
New York City, 1880s—the epicenter of steam technology, magic, and murder. Special Agent Gillian Hamilton and infamous outlaw Gunner the Deadly exist on opposite sides of the law, but a series of misadventures involving the country’s worst criminals brings the two into an unlikely partnership.
And in an alternate universe fraught with peril, with escalating danger, with baggage lingering from the Great Rebellion, and personal turmoil cutting all the way to the bone, Gillian and Gunner can trust their safety and their hearts to no one but each other.
Saturday Series Spotlight
C.S. Poe is a Lambda Literary and two-time EPIC award finalist, and a FAPA award-winning author of gay mystery, romance, and speculative fiction.
She resides in New York City, but has also called Key West and Ibaraki, Japan, home in the past. She has an affinity for all things cute and colorful and a major weakness for toys. C.S. is an avid fan of coffee, reading, and cats. She’s rescued two cats—Milo and Kasper do their best to distract her from work on a daily basis.
C.S. is an alumna of the School of Visual Arts.
Her debut novel, The Mystery of Nevermore, was published 2016.
Series
Friday, April 11, 2025
📘🎥Friday's Film Adaptation🎥📘: Little Women by Louisa May Alcott
Meg is the eldest and on the brink of love. Then there’s tomboy Jo who longs to be a writer. Sweet-natured Beth always puts others first, and finally there’s Amy, the youngest and most precocious. Together they are the March sisters. Even though money is short, times are tough and their father is away at war, their infectious sense of fun sweeps everyone up in their adventures — including Laurie, the boy next door. And through sisterly squabbles, their happy times and sad ones too, the sisters discover that growing up is sometimes very hard to do.
Based on Louisa May Alcott’s childhood, this lively portrait of nineteenth-century family life possesses a lasting vitality that has endeared it to generations of readers.
A wonderful story... As a child, I strongly identified with Jo because she is a writer. —Jacqueline Wilson
The American female myth. —Madelon Bedell
It is an essential American novel, perhaps the essential American novel for girls… Girls come to it on their own. —Jane Smiley
In “Little Women”, Alcott anticipated realism by twenty or thirty years. —G. K. Chesterton
Chapter 1
NO
Playing Pilgrims
"Christmas won't be Christmas without any presents," grumbled Jo, lying on the rug.
"It's so dreadful to be poor!" sighed Meg, looking down at her old dress.
"I don't think it's fair for some girls to have plenty of pretty things, and other girls nothing at all," added little Amy, with an injured sniff.
"We've got Father and Mother and each other," said Beth contentedly from her corner.
The four young faces on which the firelight shone brightened at the cheerful words, but darkened again as Jo said sadly, "We haven't got Father, and shall not have him for a long time." She didn't say "perhaps never," but each silently added it, thinking of Father far away, where the fighting was.
Nobody spoke for a minute; then Meg said in an altered tone, "You know the reason Mother proposed not having any presents this Christmas was because it is going to be a hard winter for everyone; and she thinks we ought not to spend money for pleasure, when our men are suffering so in the army. We can't do much, but we can make our little sacrifices, and ought to do it gladly. But I am afraid I don't." And Meg shook her head, as she thought regretfully of all the pretty things she wanted.
"But I don't think the little we should spend would do any good. We've each got a dollar, and the army wouldn't be much helped by our giving that. I agree not to expect anything from Mother or you, but I do want to buy Undine and Sintram for myself. I've wanted it so long," said Jo, who was a bookworm.
"I planned to spend mine in new music," said Beth, with a little sigh, which no one heard but the hearth brush and kettle holder.
"I shall get a nice box of Faber's drawing pencils. I really need them," said Amy decidedly.
"Mother didn't say anything about our money, and she won't wish us to give up everything. Let's each buy what we want, and have a little fun. I'm sure we work hard enough to earn it," cried Jo, examining the heels of her shoes in a gentlemanly manner.
"I know I do-teaching those tiresome children nearly all day, when I'm longing to enjoy myself at home," began Meg, in the complaining tone again.
"You don't have half such a hard time as I do," said Jo. "How would you like to be shut up for hours with a nervous, fussy old lady, who keeps you trotting, is never satisfied, and worries you till you're ready to fly out of the window or cry?"
"It's naughty to fret, but I do think washing dishes and keeping things tidy is the worst work in the world. It makes me cross, and my hands get so stiff, I can't practice well at all." And Beth looked at her rough hands with a sigh that any one could hear that time.
"I don't believe any of you suffer as I do," cried Amy, "for you don't have to go to school with impertinent girls, who plague you if you don't know your lessons, and laugh at your dresses, and label your father if he isn't rich, and insult you when your nose isn't nice."
"If you mean libel, I'd say so, and not talk about labels, as if Papa was a pickle bottle," advised Jo, laughing.
"I know what I mean, and you needn't be statirical about it. It's proper to use good words, and improve your vocabilary," returned Amy, with dignity.
"Don't peck at one another, children. Don't you wish we had the money Papa lost when we were little, Jo? Dear me! how happy and good we'd be, if we had no worries!" said Meg, who could remember better times.
"You said the other day you thought we were a deal happier than the King children, for they were fighting and fretting all the time, in spite of their money."
"So I did, Beth. Well, I think we are; for, though we do have to work, we make fun for ourselves, and are a pretty jolly set, as Jo would say."
"Jo does use such slang words!" observed Amy, with a reproving look at the long figure stretched on the rug. Jo immediately sat up, put her hands in her pockets, and began to whistle.
"Don't, Jo, it's so boyish!"
"That's why I do it."
"I detest rude, unladylike girls!"
"I hate affected, niminy-piminy chits!"
" 'Birds in their little nests agree,' " sang Beth, the peacemaker, with such a funny face that both sharp voices softened to a laugh, and the "pecking" ended for that time.
"Really, girls, you are both to blame," said Meg, beginning to lecture in her elder-sisterly fashion. "You are old enough to leave off boyish tricks, and to behave better, Josephine. It didn't matter so much when you were a little girl; but now you are so tall, and turn up your hair, you should remember that you are a young lady."
"I'm not! And if turning up my hair makes me one, I'll wear it in two tails till I'm twenty," cried Jo, pulling off her net, and shaking down a chestnut mane. "I hate to think I've got to grow up, and be Miss March, and wear long gowns, and look as prim as a China aster! It's bad enough to be a girl, anyway, when I like boys' games and work and manners! I can't get over my disappointment in not being a boy; and it's worse than ever now, for I'm dying to go and fight with Papa, and I can only stay at home and knit, like a poky old woman!" And Jo shook the blue army sock till the needles rattled like castanets, and her ball bounded across the room.
"Poor Jo! It's too bad, but it can't be helped. So you must try to be contented with making your name boyish, and playing brother to us girls," said Beth, stroking the rough head at her knee with a hand that all the dishwashing and dusting in the world could not make ungentle in its touch.
"As for you, Amy," continued Meg, "you are altogether too particular and prim. Your airs are funny now, but you'll grow up an affected little goose, if you don't take care. I like your nice manners and refined ways of speaking, when you don't try to be elegant. But your absurd words are as bad as Jo's slang."
"If Jo is a tomboy and Amy a goose, what am I, please?" asked Beth, ready to share the lecture.
"You're a dear, and nothing else," answered Meg warmly; and no one contradicted her, for the "Mouse" was the pet of the family.
As young readers like to know "how people look," we will take this moment to give them a little sketch of the four sisters, who sat knitting away in the twilight, while the December snow fell quietly without, and the fire crackled cheerfully within. It was a comfortable old room, though the carpet was faded and the furniture very plain; for a good picture or two hung on the walls, books filled the recesses, chrysanthemums and Christmas roses bloomed in the windows, and a pleasant atmosphere of home peace pervaded it.
Margaret, the eldest of the four, was sixteen, and very pretty, being plump and fair, with large eyes, plenty of soft, brown hair, a sweet mouth, and white hands, of which she was rather vain. Fifteen-year-old Jo was very tall, thin, and brown, and reminded one of a colt, for she never seemed to know what to do with her long limbs, which were very much in her way. She had a decided mouth, a comical nose, and sharp, gray eyes, which appeared to see everything, and were by turns fierce, funny, or thoughtful. Her long, thick hair was her one beauty, but it was usually bundled into a net, to be out of her way. Round shoulders had Jo, big hands and feet, a flyaway look to her clothes, and the uncomfortable appearance of a girl who was rapidly shooting up into a woman and didn't like it. Elizabeth-or Beth, as everyone called her-was a rosy, smooth-haired, bright-eyed girl of thirteen, with a shy manner, a timid voice, and a peaceful expression which was seldom disturbed. Her father called her "Little Tranquillity," and the name suited her excellently, for she seemed to live in a happy world of her own, only venturing out to meet the few whom she trusted and loved. Amy, though the youngest, was a most important person-in her own opinion at least. A regular snow maiden, with blue eyes, and yellow hair curling on her shoulders, pale and slender, and always carrying herself like a young lady mindful of her manners. What the characters of the four sisters were we will leave to be found out.
The clock struck six and, having swept up the hearth, Beth put a pair of slippers down to warm. Somehow the sight of the old shoes had a good effect upon the girls, for Mother was coming, and everyone brightened to welcome her. Meg stopped lecturing, and lighted the lamp, Amy got out of the easy chair without being asked, and Jo forgot how tired she was as she sat up to hold the slippers nearer to the blaze.
"They are quite worn out. Marmee must have a new pair."
"I thought I'd get her some with my dollar," said Beth.
"No, I shall!" cried Amy.
"I'm the oldest," began Meg, but Jo cut in with a decided-
"I'm the man of the family now Papa is away, and I shall provide the slippers, for he told me to take special care of Mother while he was gone."
"I'll tell you what we'll do," said Beth, "let's each get her something for Christmas, and not get anything for ourselves."
"That's like you, dear! What will we get?" exclaimed Jo.
Everyone thought soberly for a minute, then Meg announced, as if the idea was suggested by the sight of her own pretty hands, "I shall give her a nice pair of gloves."
"Army shoes, best to be had," cried Jo.
"Some handkerchiefs, all hemmed," said Beth.
"I'll get a little bottle of cologne. She likes it, and it won't cost much, so I'll have some left to buy my pencils," added Amy.
"How will we give the things?" asked Meg.
"Put them on the table, and bring her in and see her open the bundles. Don't you remember how we used to do on our birthdays?" answered Jo.
"I used to be so frightened when it was my turn to sit in the big chair with the crown on, and see you all come marching round to give the presents, with a kiss. I liked the things and the kisses, but it was dreadful to have you sit looking at me while I opened the bundles," said Beth, who was toasting her face and the bread for tea at the same time.
"Let Marmee think we are getting things for ourselves, and then surprise her. We must go shopping tomorrow afternoon, Meg. There is so much to do about the play for Christmas night," said Jo, marching up and down, with her hands behind her back and her nose in the air.
"I don't mean to act any more after this time. I'm getting too old for such things," observed Meg, who was as much a child as ever about "dressing-up" frolics.
"You won't stop, I know, as long as you can trail round in a white gown with your hair down, and wear gold-paper jewelry. You are the best actress we've got, and there'll be an end of everything if you quit the boards," said Jo. "We ought to rehearse tonight. Come here, Amy, and do the fainting scene, for you are as stiff as a poker in that."
"I can't help it; I never saw anyone faint, and I don't choose to make myself all black and blue, tumbling flat as you do. If I can go down easily, I'll drop; if I can't, I shall fall into a chair and be graceful. I don't care if Hugo does come at me with a pistol," returned Amy, who was not gifted with dramatic power, but was chosen because she was small enough to be borne out shrieking by the villain of the piece.
"Do it this way: clasp your hands so, and stagger across the room, crying frantically, 'Roderigo! save me! save me!' " and away went Jo, with a melodramatic scream which was truly thrilling.
Amy followed, but she poked her hands out stiffly before her, and jerked herself along as if she went by machinery, and her "Ow!" was more suggestive of pins being run into her than of fear and anguish. Jo gave a despairing groan, and Meg laughed outright, while Beth let her bread burn as she watched the fun with interest.
"It's no use! Do the best you can when the time comes, and if the audience laughs, don't blame me. Come on, Meg."
Then things went smoothly, for Don Pedro defied the world in a speech of two pages without a single break; Hagar, the witch, chanted an awful incantation over her kettleful of simmering toads, with weird effect; Roderigo rent his chains asunder manfully, and Hugo died in agonies of remorse and arsenic, with a wild "Ha! ha!"
"It's the best we've had yet," said Meg, as the dead villain sat up and rubbed his elbows.
"I don't see how you can write and act such splendid things, Jo. You're a regular Shakespeare!" exclaimed Beth, who firmly believed that her sisters were gifted with wonderful genius in all things.
"Not quite," replied Jo modestly. "I do think The Witch's Curse, an Operatic Tragedy is rather a nice thing, but I'd like to try Macbeth, if we only had a trapdoor for Banquo. I always wanted to do the killing part. 'Is that a dagger that I see before me?' " muttered Jo, rolling her eyes and clutching at the air, as she had seen a famous tragedian do.
"No, it's the toasting fork, with Mother's shoe on it instead of the bread. Beth's stage-struck!" cried Meg, and the rehearsal ended in a general burst of laughter.
"Glad to find you so merry, my girls," said a cheery voice at the door, and actors and audience turned to welcome a tall, motherly lady with a "can-I-help-you" look about her which was truly delightful. She was not elegantly dressed, but a noble-looking woman, and the girls thought the gray cloak and unfashionable bonnet covered the most splendid mother in the world.
"Well, dearies, how have you got on today? There was so much to do, getting the boxes ready to go tomorrow, that I didn't come home to dinner. Has anyone called, Beth? How is your cold, Meg? Jo, you look tired to death. Come and kiss me, baby."
Release Date: March 10, 1949
Release Time: 121 minutes
Director: Mervyn LeRoy
Cast:
June Allyson as Josephine "Jo" March
Peter Lawford as Theodore "Laurie" Laurence
Margaret O'Brien as Elizabeth "Beth" March
Elizabeth Taylor as Amy March
Janet Leigh as Margaret "Meg" March
Rossano Brazzi as Professor Friedrich Bhaer
Mary Astor as Margaret "Marmee" March
Lucile Watson as Aunt Josephine March
Sir C. Aubrey Smith as James Laurence
Elizabeth Patterson as Hannah Mullet
Leon Ames as Robert March
Harry Davenport as Dr. Barnes
Richard Stapley as John Brooke
Connie Gilchrist as Mrs. Kirke
Ellen Corby as Sophie
Uncredited
Harlan Briggs as Old Crony at Grace's store
Frank Darien as Crony at Grace's store
Lisa Golm as Mrs. Hummel
Olin Howland as Mr. Davis
Isabel Randolph as Mrs. Gardiner
Will Wright as Mr. Grace
Awards:
22nd Academy Awards - March 23, 1950
Best Art Direction-Set Decoration–Color - Cedric Gibbons, Paul Groesse, Edwin B. Willis and Jack D. Moore - Won
Best Cinematography–Color - Robert H. Planck and Charles Schoenbaum - Nominated
1933 / 1949
Louisa May Alcott
Louisa May Alcott was both an abolitionist and a feminist. She is best known for Little Women (1868), a semi-autobiographical account of her childhood years with her sisters in Concord, Massachusetts. Alcott, unlike Jo, never married: "... because I have fallen in love with so many pretty girls and never once the least bit with any man." She was an advocate of women's suffrage and was the first woman to register to vote in Concord, Massachusetts.
B&N / iTUNES / iTUNES AUDIO
Film
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