The streets in Ethinium, Rip decided, looked rather colorful out in the sunlight despite the uniform stone used to construct the buildings in this neighborhood.

All the paving was made of cobblestone but looked rather smooth, he thought, all things considered. The hansom cab clattered along at a stately pace, making its way through several intersections with no lights.

Busier streets had cops directing the flow of traffic. They wore bright blue uniforms with big shiny copper buttons down the front. They all wore tall domed hats, held in place with chinstraps.

Horses dominated the thoroughfares, most pulling wagons of some sort. On occasion, a steam-powered wagon rumbled along. Rip decided the ratio was about four to one, in favor of the horse-drawn conveyances.

He studied pedestrians and street vendors out of curiosity. Everywhere, men and women walked about dressed to the nines.

As they eased out from under the aerodrome’s massive shadow, he spied a woman wearing an ornate purple skirt down to her ankles, a matching vest covering her tightly corseted midsection, and an elaborate black hat with a wide brim stretching out over her shoulders.

She walked in a straight path along the sidewalk, clutching a matching black purse tightly to her side, looking neither to the right nor the left.

Rip decided she was typical, at least in this neighborhood.

Men wore business suits, and though they looked old-fashioned and fusty, with wider lapels and ties than he was used to, Rip thought they could fit in on Wall Street without too many odd looks.

The only difference is, this world has never heard of business casual.

People not in their Sunday best stood out. Children, he noted, were often not dressed up, especially if no adult accompanied them.

One young boy stood at a corner hawking a pile of newspapers, holding one high and yelling the headlines. He wore short brown pants covering his knees, a white shirt with rolled-up sleeves, and a gray beret.

He looks like something out of a movie.

They stopped at an intersection, waiting for a policeman to give the signal for their lane to move forward. Rip watched a street sweeper go by shoveling manure into a rolling waste bin.

“Hm. You’d think they’d have automated that,” he said with a smile.

“They have,” Blair said. “The city paid for some municipal robots designed to clear the roads. Naturally, the Dung Keepers Guild protested. But since they have been increasingly unable to keep the streets clear in recent years, they were ignored.”

“So what happened? Where are the robots?”

“The problem is, of course, robots are quite expensive. Anything mechanical is. So not as many were put into service as expected. You might see one around the busier intersections, when they’re not broken down. Humans handle the rest of the manure, as before.”

The officer motioned for their lane to move forward and the driver tapped his horse’s flank.

Blair glanced at Rip with curiosity.

“Are we so different from your world?”

“No, not really. It’s just that, where I’m from, just about everything is mechanized. Horses are rare. I guess some police still use them for crowd control, and you might see some giving tourists or couples a romantic ride around city parks. But for the most part, everyone uses cars. Uh, horseless carriages.”

“We have those, as you can see. Like robots, they are prohibitively expensive, I’m afraid.”

“You haven’t had your Henry Ford, yet.”

“What was that?”

“Never mind.”

After a few moments of silence, Blair said, “I think steam carriages for all would be an improvement, actually. The manure can become quite overwhelming at times. You’ll notice all the buildings have steps leading up off the street. That’s because when it rains, the manure liquefies and flows into the buildings if they’re not sealed off at street level.”

Rip grimaced.

“Yeah. I can see how that would be a problem.”

“When did your cities make the switch to this all-mechanized travel?”

“Over a hundred years ago.”

She raised her eyebrows.

“Well, then. I suppose you do find us rather quaint.”

“Just different. I’m not judging, Lady Brooke. Not yet, anyway.”

“Please, call me Blair. At least in private. My father was an industrialist. After earning his fortune, he was knighted by the last king. I’m not old gentry, by any means.”

“Okay. Call me Rip.”

Several minutes passed and the cab finally turned off the wider streets and into a wealthy residential district. Here, walls and iron gates lined the sidewalks, often adorned with statues of animals guarding entrances.

The driver stopped at one of the gates and released the latch for the curbside door.

“Four twenty-one Pickle Leigh, milady.”

Rip exited and offered Blair a hand. She smiled at him and stepped out.

They were parked in front of an iron gate set in a brick portal. Through the bars Rip could see a huge three-story townhouse. Larger gates on either side fronted a curved driveway, its arc ending at marble steps leading up to wide double doors. Water burbled up from a stone fountain between the gate and the doors.

Blair smiled at him and pulled a cord on the wall, then lifted a hinged cover off a brass speaking tube poking out of the stonework.

A voice inside said, “Yes? Who is it?”

“Nancy, it’s me. Bring the fare out for our cabbie. I have a visitor, too.”

“Oh! Right away, dear!”

She closed the lid on the tube and smiled up at the cabbie, still sitting on his seat.

“She’ll be right out.”

A moment later, the front doors opened and Rip watched as a plump lady in her mid-40s spryly danced down the steps and rushed out to the gate. She wore a black skirt and blouse with a long white apron, and a tidy white bonnet on her head holding down her hair in the back.

She opened the latch and came out to the sidewalk, all smiles.

“Here you are my good man.”

She reached up to the cabbie’s outstretched hand and transferred over some coins.

He tipped his hat at the women and lightly tapped the flank of his horse, clip-clopping away.

“Nancy, this is Sergeant Coulter. He rescued me inside the steam vault, when the team ended up getting captured. He helped us all escape. He has no money and nothing but the clothes on his back. So he’ll be staying in the guest cottage for a while, until he gets on his feet.”

Nancy turned her full attention to Rip and gasped, her eyes traveling up and down his body.

“He’s gorgeous! How did you find him again? You say he rescued you? How romantic!”

“He’s in need of a bath. And a tailor. We need to get Mr. Stoffman here immediately. Tonight. Please send his shop a message. Tell him I have a surprise guest with a clothing emergency who will be in court tomorrow and needs to be dressed accordingly. Tell him our guest has no clothes at all and needs everything. Underwear included.”

“Underwear?”

“Nancy! Come along. Go deliver the message. Now, please. We need Mr. Stoffman here tonight. I’ll put Sergeant Coulter up in the guesthouse while you’re doing that. Later you can make us some dinner. I’m starving.”

“Yes, of course. Right away, dear. I’ll head to Mr. Stoffman’s shop immediately, he’s only a couple blocks away. I hope he hasn’t closed yet!”

She left without another word, hiking up her skirt and quickly trotting down the street.

Rip watched her go.

“Your maid, I take it?”

“Mm. More than that. She practically raised me. My father was not around much.”

“No mother?”

“She died in childbirth. Father never remarried. So, Nancy raised me as best she could.”

“I see. She was your Alfred.”

Blair frowned.

“I don’t get that reference. She’s not a man. Who is Alfred?”

“Never mind.”