newspaper reference he found was an illustration of the Taradale Viaduct on the Melbourne-to-Sandhurst line. Apparently, gold had been found there back in the 1850s. If Modo had had permission to leave Safe House he could have changed into a gentlemanly shape and gone to Mudie’s on New Oxford Street, his favorite library.
Then one morning Footman came into the parlor with a package wrapped in brown paper. Modo thanked him andunwrapped it to discover a thin wooden mask. It looked like something an African tribesman would have created, with large round eyeholes and a slit for a mouth. Inside the mask was a folded note in Mr. Socrates’ perfect handwriting:
A gift for you, Modo. This African mask was the best I could find on such short notice. Artisans here know nothing of the Maori style, which would have been my preference. Please join us dressed impeccably and transformed into the appearance of Dr. Reeve. That persona has not been overused, though you shall be assigned a new name. We will travel first class. Immediately proceed to Victoria Dock to board the RMS
Rome.
Your clothing, weapons, and other necessary equipment are already packed
.
Mr. Socrates
Modo held the note gently. His standing orders were to burn all correspondence, but instead he tucked the note into his pocket. Mr. Socrates had given him a lovely, hand-carved gift. He couldn’t bring himself to destroy this proof of his master’s kindness.
He tried on the mask, tightening the leather straps. It fit perfectly. Mr. Socrates must have used the wax molding of Modo’s face. The doctors of the Permanent Association had made it recently when they were studying his adaptive transformation abilities.
He set about changing his features, returning happily to the face of Dr. Jonathan Reeve—the Doctor face. He liked the straight jawline, the air of sophistication. Then he dressed in the same fine clothes he’d worn to Bedlam, buthe chose a bowler hat this time. It seemed more appropriate for the voyage. Surely the wind on a ship would toss a top hat out to sea. He threw on a greatcoat and, clutching the mask in one hand, ran downstairs.
Outside the front gates he climbed into the waiting carriage. “Victoria Dock, please,” he said to the driver.
They rode east through the streets toward the docks, Modo wondering what the ocean voyage would be like. The idea of getting back on a ship didn’t make him particularly happy; in his last mission he’d had too many terrifying encounters with the ocean.
Ah, don’t let that spoil your mood
, he told himself. He was out of the mansion and actually going somewhere!
After an interminably long time, the carriage stopped and Modo jumped out. Victoria Dock was the greatest of the Royal Docks, the largest port in London, maybe the world. This was where many of the goods from across the Empire were brought into England. He stared at the mass of workers and travelers, like ants next to the enormous steamships. A man with a wagonload of bananas rolled by. A train had pulled to a stop behind him, unloading even more people. There was a crowd of people and a host of portmanteaus large and small, carpetbags, brown-paper parcels, even canaries in birdcages!
Modo made his way down the dock to the RMS
Rome
. He spotted Mr. Socrates, Tharpa, and, he was happy to see, Octavia. They stood next to several large crates. A woman in a red dress and long coat turned to look at him: Mrs. Finchley! He ran up to them.
“Ah, Modo,” Mr. Socrates said, “late is better than never.”
“It’s good to see you too, sir,” he said somewhat flippantly. “And you as well, Mrs. Finchley.”
“Yes, Modo,” she answered, “always a pleasure.” She sounded a little distant, even aloof.
Modo assumed she didn’t want to show too much affection in front of Mr. Socrates.
“I assume you are pleased to see me, too.” Octavia gave him a haughty smile.
“Of course, of course.” He clutched the mask close to his
Then one morning Footman came into the parlor with a package wrapped in brown paper. Modo thanked him andunwrapped it to discover a thin wooden mask. It looked like something an African tribesman would have created, with large round eyeholes and a slit for a mouth. Inside the mask was a folded note in Mr. Socrates’ perfect handwriting:
A gift for you, Modo. This African mask was the best I could find on such short notice. Artisans here know nothing of the Maori style, which would have been my preference. Please join us dressed impeccably and transformed into the appearance of Dr. Reeve. That persona has not been overused, though you shall be assigned a new name. We will travel first class. Immediately proceed to Victoria Dock to board the RMS
Rome.
Your clothing, weapons, and other necessary equipment are already packed
.
Mr. Socrates
Modo held the note gently. His standing orders were to burn all correspondence, but instead he tucked the note into his pocket. Mr. Socrates had given him a lovely, hand-carved gift. He couldn’t bring himself to destroy this proof of his master’s kindness.
He tried on the mask, tightening the leather straps. It fit perfectly. Mr. Socrates must have used the wax molding of Modo’s face. The doctors of the Permanent Association had made it recently when they were studying his adaptive transformation abilities.
He set about changing his features, returning happily to the face of Dr. Jonathan Reeve—the Doctor face. He liked the straight jawline, the air of sophistication. Then he dressed in the same fine clothes he’d worn to Bedlam, buthe chose a bowler hat this time. It seemed more appropriate for the voyage. Surely the wind on a ship would toss a top hat out to sea. He threw on a greatcoat and, clutching the mask in one hand, ran downstairs.
Outside the front gates he climbed into the waiting carriage. “Victoria Dock, please,” he said to the driver.
They rode east through the streets toward the docks, Modo wondering what the ocean voyage would be like. The idea of getting back on a ship didn’t make him particularly happy; in his last mission he’d had too many terrifying encounters with the ocean.
Ah, don’t let that spoil your mood
, he told himself. He was out of the mansion and actually going somewhere!
After an interminably long time, the carriage stopped and Modo jumped out. Victoria Dock was the greatest of the Royal Docks, the largest port in London, maybe the world. This was where many of the goods from across the Empire were brought into England. He stared at the mass of workers and travelers, like ants next to the enormous steamships. A man with a wagonload of bananas rolled by. A train had pulled to a stop behind him, unloading even more people. There was a crowd of people and a host of portmanteaus large and small, carpetbags, brown-paper parcels, even canaries in birdcages!
Modo made his way down the dock to the RMS
Rome
. He spotted Mr. Socrates, Tharpa, and, he was happy to see, Octavia. They stood next to several large crates. A woman in a red dress and long coat turned to look at him: Mrs. Finchley! He ran up to them.
“Ah, Modo,” Mr. Socrates said, “late is better than never.”
“It’s good to see you too, sir,” he said somewhat flippantly. “And you as well, Mrs. Finchley.”
“Yes, Modo,” she answered, “always a pleasure.” She sounded a little distant, even aloof.
Modo assumed she didn’t want to show too much affection in front of Mr. Socrates.
“I assume you are pleased to see me, too.” Octavia gave him a haughty smile.
“Of course, of course.” He clutched the mask close to his
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