So, Rags Made Me and Icon

[tanarill]

Thus, ficcage.

Title: Steampunk'd
Fandom: Danny Phantom, and the ASRP. Kindof. But the Averies belong to me.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: A small amount of language


The problem, as Vladimir Masters saw it, with Lady Samantha Averies was that she had totally failed to grasp the fact that there were some things that ladies did not do. Ladies did not wear leather and canvas leggings instead of skirts, ladies did not use language harsher than an occasional 'darn,' and ladies certainly did not take up mechanistry as a hobby.

Of course, he supposed, some allowances ought to be made for her origins. But even so . . .

"I kin measure 't any way I wan'," she said, looking at the bluish stone held in what seemed almost a jewelers' mount, "but t' damn thing still don't make no sense!"

"Lady Averies-" he began.

"Mister Masters," she said.

It really hadn't taken her long at all to learn other things, though. "Lord, if you must." While he was the second son on his father's side, and therefore would not inherit his father's barony, he did possess substantial holdings on the continent from his mother. And he did have the honorary rank of Earl in his status as ambassador.

"Lord, then," she continued impatiently. "Where'd ya git it?"

"Excuse me?"

"Where'd ya git it?"

"I fail to see how that is any of you-"

"'S my bizniz," interrupted Sam, "'cause i's jes like t' Axle."

It took a moment to parse this back into the Queen's English. Then he said, "The London Axle?"

"An' what other axle is there?"

Four years ago, upon his sudden and unexpected return from India, Lord Averies and the now-Lady Averies had presented the Queen with the London Axle. It was nothing special to look at: a black box, out of which emerged a rod, the end of which was formed into a gear. There were no visible seams or joins, even where the axle joined the box. It moved soundlessly as well, suggesting either a lack of moving internal parts or a perfect lubricant. It was black, cool to the touch, and tasted faintly of char. It would be completely unassuming if not for the fact that that the axle, and gear, performed one rotation every twelve minutes.

No matter what load was put on the gear.

It had revolutionized London, earned Averies a dukedom, considerably enriched the crown, and still completely mystified anyone who wanted to know how it worked. The Queen had eventually been forced to order her mechanichals to stop playing with it and put it to use. They had, to great effect, with the end result that half of London was now driven by the mysterious box.

He kept meaning to ask his wife about it, but for some reason, never remembered to do so while she was in the room.

"Be that as it may," he said. "I hired you to build a clock, and that is what I would like you to do."

"Oh, yeah? An' if I takes this to t' crown?"

"Then I will find someone else to build me my clock," said Vlad, stiffly.

"Usin' what? Another one o' these?" she gestured to the blue stone.

"Certainly," he said.

She snorted. "As if yeh 'as more'n one."

"I have as many as I need, Miss dePillion."

"'Ere," said Samantha sharply. "Missus dePillion. I ain't ashamed of me Da's name, but I's married, right an' proper."

Vlad resisted the urge to reach up and rub his temples. This wasn't how the conversation was supposed to go.

"An' I ain't sayin' I wasn' gonna make yer clock," said Sam, after a pause. "I jes' wanned t'know where yeh got it."

"Out of a river," he said blandly. "In China." It was even true, for a given value of the word.

She gave him a long, long look. "If yeh don' wanna tell me, 'sfine. But . . . "

"But?"

"'As yeh got one as cools, 'stead o' heats?"


Sam looked at the house. It was nothing like a proper townhouse; instead, a small but ornate gate graced an otherwise featureless wall. Still, she thought, it was sweet that Masters had built a chinaman-style house for his wife, even if he was an unmitigated bastard of a toff.

And, really, London Society, which had thus far managed to avoid the existence of said wife in all but the most horrified rumor, could go hang for all she cared.

She walked to the gate an knocked. After waiting a moment, a very clear if slightly accented voice said, "Just a moment."

Sam stood there, while behind her her, she heard the carriage trundle off. This was a respectable neighborhood-and to able to afford that much land, Masters must be nearly as fabulously wealthy as they were-so she didn't feel in any danger. But.

The door opened.

The lady was shorter even than Sam, and that said something. She had the smooth, flat features of a chinaman, but wasn't dressed like one. Instead, she seemed to be dressed in layer after layer of thin, sheer dressing gowns. Her hair, which must have been very long, was neatly twisted into a knot and held in place with a beautifully lacquered comb.

"Can I help you?"

"I would like to see Mrs. Masters, please," said Sam.

The woman smiled. "I prefer to be called Tressla, actually, but you may certainly come in if you wish to visit with me."

"You?" exclaimed Sam. "But-what 'bout servants? Doormen? Maids?"

"We have no need of them."

"No need?"

"Certainly," said Mrs. Masters. "Am I so lacking in ability that I must have other women do everything for me? Am I feeble, that I cannot answer the door of my own home, and welcome my own honored guests with proper hospitality? I am not. Please, come in."

She stepped sideways, and Sam entered.

It was not the inside of any house Sam had ever seen. It was, instead, a garden, although it failed to fall into th neat geometric shapes and beautiful fountains to which she was accustomed. Instead, a small pond and wildly asymmetrical tree occupied most of the space, while various other bushes an shrubs made the place seem more natural.

"It's beautiful."

"Thank you," said Mrs. Masters, leading the way. A small, ornamental, and totally unnecessary path ran through the garden, bridging the pond at the narrowest point in a smooth red arc. A small stone bench sat under the tree, whose branches were heavy with ripening fruit. Mrs. Masters sat down, then motioned for Sam to join her.

"Would an offer of tea be appreciated?"

"Yeah, thanks," said Sam.

"Then it will be here in a moment. Please, I sense that you did not come merely for pleasantries and tea. What is it that my husband has done now?"

Sam reached into her purse, and fished out the stone Vlad had given her. It glowed a dim blue. "Do you know what this is?"

Mrs. Masters held out a small, perfectly formed hand, and she deposited the stone. After scrutinizing it for a moment, Mrs. Masters handed it back. "There is no direct translation. Vladimir calls them charms, but from what I understand of the word, it might be better to say that they are charmed."

Sam blinked. "Charmed? Yeh mean, like magic?"

"Magic is not a bad word for it," Mrs. Masters agreed. "Although I much prefer the term weaving, or will. It is closer in practice and application to either one of those."

"Yeh think i's magic? Fer true?"

"I do not think, Lady Averies. I know. Ah, our tea."

It wasn't as though Sam had never been places where the tea was not delivered by a person; automated tea towers were becoming popular, although in her opinion they could not make anything like a good cuppa. But this tea set was on a tray being delivered by absolutely nothing at all.

She felt her eyes widen, and then deliberately tuck out a foot to trip up the invisible servant. The tray glided past without apparently noting them, then dropped to hover, tablelike, in front of Mrs. Masters.

"Cream or sugar?" asked Mrs. Masters, calmly.

"Ah-sugar, please," she said, watching in fascination as two cups poured themselves. Sugar was added to one, and then cream and what looked like sugar, but must have been salt to be in a separate container, were added to the other. The first cup sailed to hover in front of her. She reached out, and wrapped her hands around it. The weight of a cup of tea then settled in, slowly, as if whatever was holding the china wanted to be sure she had it.

She took a sip. It was real.

"An' I suppose that was magic too?"

"That was a parlor trick, used to entertain guests and avoid getting off the kang in the winter," said Mrs. Masters, setting her own cup back on empty air. "And, yes, an exercise in will."

Sam said nothing, for a moment, sipping her tea, and the she simply dropped the cup. For the first moment it fell normally, and then . . . Liquid spilled as it tumbled, but seemed to hit a large invisible bowl. The cup, meanwhile, slowed in midair and stopped a few inches from the ground. Then it ailed back up and the tea vortexed into it.

Mrs. Masters said, "That was a remarkably astute test. Would you like me to reheat it? It will have gone cool like that."

"Yes. Please," said Sam weakly, before fainting.


Lady Averies woke, silently and without motion. It did not fool her.

"Lady Averies?" It took a visible moment for Lady Averies to place the voice as Vlad's smooth tenor, and only then did she open her eyes. The moment when she realized that, in fact, Tressla really wasn't sitting on anything was obvious as well.

"Oh," said Sam. "It wasn' a dream."

"No," she agreed.

"Are you sure it's entirely wise-" began Vlad, before she raised a hand.

"Vlad, please. She is entirely trustworthy. Besides which, she is here because you refused to tell her the truth."

"I did, though. She did not believe me."

"Yeh tol' me yeh got t' stone from a river in China," accused Sam.

It was exactly the kind of half-truth he would tell, but then again, so would she. Even so . . . Tell her, she communicated to him, mind-to-mind.

He blinked, then did as she asked. "And so I did. I never explained what I did with it afterwards, though."

"Yeh . . . got as many as yeh need 'cause yeh c'n make 'em," replied Sam slowly.

"I will certainly never insult your intelligence, Lady Averies," said Vlad.

She hit him, invisibly. You will never insult her at all, dearest. It's unbecoming.

"Yeh do tha'," said Sam, completely oblivious to this. "An' also, yeh c'n show me 'ow, aright?"


Next one will involve singing!Vlad. Because he'd have to be totally smashed before even considering it.