Dawn's Early Light by Pip Ballantine

was a tracker and a retrieval specialist.
    Accepting this commission would see to the many needs of their church. The piano would finally be tuned, and the roof fully repaired in time for next winter. There could even be some money in the coffer for a garden. Meals for the poor.
    Her fingers had already begun typing before her eyes returned to the screen.
    ASSIGNMENT ACCEPTED.
    PLEASE FORWARD AVAILABLE IMAGE OF TARGET.
    WILL LEAVE IMMEDIATELY FOR N.C. ON DELIVERY.
    Van’s thoughts scattered when the signal returned to red. She flipped the switch underneath, and the display began to assemble itself, line by line. In an hour’s time she would have the face of her latest assignment. Even the telegraph could not offer that.
    As the image assembled itself, she would have plenty of time to pack for an unexpected journey south. Van connected two more leads, and flipped a switch that would provide a printed copy of her screen once the image finished its travel through the æther. She turned towards the wall to the left of the machine and gave a section of its moulding a gentle push. The top half of the wall slid away, revealing several rifles and handguns. After a moment’s consideration, she took down the quad-barrelled Winchester-Henry-Armstrong 1892, and felt the weight in her hands. Stopping power and distance were guaranteed, provided the target’s weight was not an issue.
    Van propped the ’92 up against the wall and looked over the handgun options in front of her. Her fingers ran along the edges of a wide, rosewood case. She tapped the sides of the box, wondering if these would be needed.
    Apprehending of target alive is the top priority,
she recalled from the message.
Eliminate any opposition.
The House of Usher wanted this target with no expense spared. The order was brief, but told her so much. There was no suspicion of opposition. It would happen. Without question.
    Van pulled the box free of the wall case and flipped open its brass latches. The pair of .38 Smith & Wesson revolvers within duly reflected the lantern light. She had not picked up either pistol yet, but the wooden grip under her brushing fingertips felt warm, as if expecting her touch.
    Closing the lid to the case and then hefting the rifle free from the wall, Van ascended the staircase, her speech to Everett already prepared. Two weeks. She’d only be away two weeks. Three weeks, at the most. For that amount of time, she would be able to do so much good for the church and their little town. Even her stoic partner would see that. The reappearance of the House of Usher could provide a welcomed windfall, and a gift from above.
    Van had to keep the faith that was why the House of Usher had returned to America. She didn’t dare contemplate the other possibility.

F OUR

In Which Our Dashing Archivist and Elegant Librarian Come to an Arrangement, Much to the Dismay of Our Colonial Pepperpot
    T heir arrival at the Outer Banks, Wellington Books decided, was quite the triumph.
    For one thing, that rather brash American, Wheatley, was nowhere in sight. He had to be behind them by a few good hours at the very least.
    Second, the couples either on the veranda or walking the grounds of Swan’s Retreat enjoying the light, salt-kissed air and bracing breezes of North Carolina barely noticed Wellington’s motorcar as it approached. Some engineers designed motorcars merely as retro-fitted horse carriages, creating in the process noisy, vapour-spewing monsters. However, Wellington had been paying close attention to the works of Karl Benz in Germany. Much like Benz’s aerocraft, Wellington’s motorcar was a streamlined, self-contained transport, able to vent any excess steam from a series of pipes through a single exhaust at the rear of the vehicle. The end result was a body less square and more rectangular, the wheels nearly half the diameter of a typical carriage. He had also taken several designs of combustion engines from Benz,