Hauntings and Humbug: A Steampunk Christmas Carol

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A chill wafted through the workshop, the frozen air making me quake to my very core. On the other side of our shared workbench, Bailey Cratchit, my apprentice, blew on her fingers. She sighed. Heavily. I knew it was cold. It was always cold. Hell, I couldn’t even feel my toes. But until the device was done, delivered, and payment received, I didn’t have a shilling to spare on extra coal. It was going to stay cold, or we would both end up on the street—whether she liked it or not.

The bell over the front door in the outer office chimed.

We both stilled.

“Missus Scrooge,” Cratchit whispered, a look of panic on her face. No one ever came in through the front. Ever. Our customers knew well enough to come through the back. And if the authorities decided to poke around, we’d both end up in a correction house.

I motioned to her to grab the drape lying nearby. Nodding, she turned and grabbed the fabric. With a hurried snap, she unfurled the cloth. I grabbed the end and helped her cover the machine on which we were working.

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