"For God said, let there be light. And lo - there it was, right enough!" It was Bertie speaking, Bertie Baker. Not precisely Theo's best friend - no. It would have been more accurate to describe him as a friendly rival, but they swapped tips and recommended each other for jobs they didn't want themselves, and, well - near enough. Bertie was all right.
And Theo stretched an arm out in the dim early evening summer light, in the field in the outer reaches of Surrey where they were stood. It wasn't the fading sunset light that Bertie was referring to, no. "Lovely, aren't they?" he said.
And even as he spoke, one of them escaped from its prison, and brushed over his hand as it flew, flew, flew, scrambling for home. Or for freedom at least, given the limited shelf-life of a firefly.
That was the light that Bertie was talking about: the glowing fire captured in long narrow glass wands, that came from a million fireflies. A million, or a million million, their miserable captivity lighting up the night. "Seems a bit cruel to me," he added.
And Bertie just tsk'ed in his general direction. "You're a poet, Theo," he observed, and it was clear enough that he considered it no kind of a compliment. "A sentimental chap. And not much of a businessman. We're doing a roaring trade with the things. Can't keep 'em in stock, the gentlefolk can't get enough."
And he nodded out at the gathering crowd, of nimbly shod and handsomely suited young City gents, elegant young ladies in voluminous skirts, their dark veils a nod to the recently bereaved Queen. And every other one of them, carrying a glow-stick, owing its light to the short-lived, desperately dying beauty of half a dozen fireflies.
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Steampunk Deejay
Mystery / ThrillerTheodore Cuttle: half-educated, dubiously genteel, and an infamous rake and roustabout of East London, with uncertain habits and disreputable friends. But a fig for that, since he has lately put his talents to work in a new arena in this excitingly...
