Bitter Cold: A Steampunk Snow Queen (The Clockwork Republic Series Book 4) (12 page)

Greta nodded, and followed her down an alley running the length of the town house.

The alley opened onto a winding, larger street. There were fewer people, and fewer conveyances compared to the bustling street she'd left behind. She followed a few paces behind the surprisingly spry woman. She halted in surprise as the older lady turned and headed towards the back of Evelyn DeWinter's property.

Attached to the back of the limestone mansion stood an immense steam garden conservatory. The building's copper and iron frame was streaked with green. Great panes of shimmering translucent glass stretched between the frames, at least two stories high. The woman pulled an ornate key from the folds of her dress, and unlocked the immense metal door. Greta followed her inside.

Inside, it was like a summer garden. Condensation dripped from pipes crisscrossing the enormous conservatory. Thick with vapor, the air hung with the rich scent of earth and growing things. Raised beds and the lush vegetation within them formed a verdant maze. The woman lead her to an enclosed room in the center.

To Greta's surprise, the room resembled a parlor. Two wing-backed chairs flanked a table set for tea. A worn Persian rug covered the polished wooden floor. Brick lower walls and a peaked tin roof created something like a gazebo or summerhouse. Fogged, dripping glass set in green-streaked copper frames formed the upper walls.

The woman in black settled into an armchair, laying the satchel in her lap, and gesturing to the other chair. "Please sit down. Here, we can speak freely. I'm quite certain we won't be heard. Evelyn and your young man left earlier this morning."

"How do you have a key? And how is this safer than talking in the street? What do you know about the young man I'm seeking? What's your part in all this?"

"One question at a time, my dear. I'm Isadora Halfacre. My husband was once employed by Evelyn DeWinter, and I still carry out small errands for her from time to time. That's how I have a key to the conservatory. With her gone, this is actually the safest place to talk. Her spies may scour the city streets, but they don't dare come in here. She's the one who took your young man." Mrs. Halfacre looked directly in Greta's eyes for the first time, which reassured her a bit.

"Took or hired? I just want to know if my friend is safe. He disappeared without a word, and that's not like him. I've heard a lot of rumors about this Snow Queen, and I'm not sure what to believe. People claim she's got more money than Midas, and a heart of ice."

"There is more truth to that last than you know," Mrs. Halfacre looked down. "She's capable of horrors you cannot imagine. That's why I knew I must help you. Perhaps you can stop her. For the love of God, someone must!"

"So she
did
take my friend?" Greta wasn't sure whether to be more worried or relieved. It was uncomfortably warm. She tugged at the collar of her dress, a trickle of sweat running down her temple.

"I assume he is a tinker or an engineer? Some sort of mechanic?"

"The best in the world," Greta said with absolute confidence.

"That makes sense." Mrs. Halfacre began pouring tea into two cups. She seemed out of breath. Greta supposed she must be parched from their brisk walk and the heat of the steam garden. "Evelyn herself is a brilliant alchemist, so she'd have no need of one. She's hired a succession of tinkers every few months for five years. None of them seem to know exactly what they're working on, but it's an enormous engine of some sort located in an airship near her largest coal mine in Pineville, in the republic of Kentucky."

"It can't be too big, if it fits in her airship."

"The one she brought from Missouri's just one of many she owns. The one currently anchored in Kentucky is a fortress four decks deep. It was my misfortune to be waiting at her townhouse when she arrived with your young man."

"Kit," Greta interrupted. "His name is Kit. And he's not my young man. He's a very dear friend."

"Then your friend is in terrible danger. The Snow Queen wants absolute power. It's all she's ever desired, as long as I've known her. As she's grown older, she's become obsessed with some form of the Philosopher's Stone. She's convinced she can succeed where the old alchemists failed. I overheard her speaking with one of her agents. Whatever her machine does, it will mean the end of thousands of people, perhaps millions!" She took a deep gulp of tea, and nudged the other cup towards Greta.

"Kit would never help anyone harm another soul, not willingly. What hold does she have over him?"

"I don't know," Mrs. Halfacre looked down at her teacup. "Of course, she can be quite persuasive to gentlemen, when she has reason to be. She's beautiful. And she can be charming, if she wishes. Perhaps she lied about what the machine will do. Many men have fallen prey to her deceit." A shadow of anger passed Mrs. Halfacre's face, but then faded to sadness.

"That's absurd!" Greta picked up the teacup and downed its contents in one swallow. "Kit's a master mechanic. Whatever the machine is, he'd recognize its purpose as soon as he saw it."

"Well, the people under her influence often fail to see things one would think were obvious. Don't underestimate her ability to manipulate others." Isadore looked searchingly into Greta's eyes.

"Don't be ridiculous." Greta leaned forward in her chair, and the room seemed to tilt at an odd angle. "Kit would never . . . would never. . . ." She paused in mid-sentence. The room whirled around her. "What? What have you done?" she muttered.

"I am so sorry, my girl." Mrs. Halfacre stood, and nudged Greta fully upright. The girl sat in perfect stillness, face glazed over, the alarm that had been etched across it replaced with a dull stare.

"As I said, Evelyn can be very persuasive. My life would've been forfeit if I'd refused to help her. My poor Hiram crossed her only once, and it was the last mistake he ever made. She's every bit as deadly as I've told you. That's why I cannot help you or your friend. You're both lost. You were, from the moment you crossed her path."

The woman fretted over the tea service, her nerves clearly frayed from the strain of maintaining her deceit, and the knowledge of its consequences. She picked up her satchel and grasped the girl's hand, leading her from the tea room through the garden to the door to the main townhouse.

"I'm supposed to leave you here for her butler to manage, but it's one of those 'gens. The moisture in here can't be good for it. Let's see if we can get you to the house, at least."

The two women moved slowly down the path. The drug slowed Greta, and Isadora was exhausted from the strain of pretense, age and the hot, languorous atmosphere of the steam garden. They passed through raised beds of roses, perfume hanging rich and heavy in the air. Tangled briars tumbled onto the brick paths between the beds. A thorny branch caught Greta's arm.

The sharp pain shook her slightly out of her stupor. What was that scent? She recognized it from somewhere. It had been a long time ago, but it seemed important. She struggled to remember what she had been doing only a moment ago. She needed to remember.

She stopped, digging in her heels. Isadora tugged on her arm, uncertain what was happening. Greta fought against the cloudy haze. She'd been doing something important. It had something to do with the flowers. Their perfume was so strong it was nauseating. A nameless fear boiled in her stomach. What were those flowers called again?

Red, with heavy velvet petals and thorns -- roses!

They were roses. She loved roses. They were her favorite. She and Kit had planted roses in their garden. The important thing was close. She could almost see it. The old woman was whining something, dragging at her arm.

She remembered digging a small wooden box out of the dirt. Roses on the magnificent clockwork ring.

Kit. The ring.

Kit!

Greta blinked hard, doubled over and retched. Mrs. Halfacre had drugged her. She wrenched her hand free of the horrified woman's grip, scrambling backwards and turning to run. Halfacre lurched forward, trying to grab her before she escaped. Greta slipped out of her grasp, and the older woman fell into the disgusting mess on the brick path.

"No!" she screamed. "She'll kill me! I beg you, come back!" she sobbed from her knees, reaching out in desperation.

Greta patted the pockets of her pinafore frantically till she found a familiar flask. Pulling it out, she unscrewed the top and gulped a huge swig of the bezoar potion she always kept on hand. Many of the ingredients alchemists worked with could be poisonous. The potion countered most ill effects if taken quickly enough.

She reached the back door of the mansion, flinging it open in hopes that Kit's absence was another of Isadora Halfacre's lies. The chill air of the main house blasted her face, clearing the last traces of the drug from her mind.

A gleaming brass 'gen stood in the doorway blocking her path. She could see past it, straight down the long dark hall to the front door of the mansion.

Kit was walking out that front door. He was dressed in finer clothes than she'd ever seen him wearing, and he was facing away from her, but she'd recognize him anywhere.

"Kit!" she screamed, her voice hoarse. "Stop! I'm here!" She flung herself against the machine, but it was useless. The automaton wrapped its arms around her and squeezed, nearly crushing her. As her yell echoed down the long hallway, Kit glanced back and looked straight at her. He seemed puzzled. Someone called to him from the street below, and he turned and walked away.

"Nooo!" Greta felt all the air escape her lungs. Whether it was from the pressure of the 'gen's iron grip or the shock of seeing Kit leave, she couldn't tell. Tears burned her eyes. She could hear and smell Isadora Halfacre come up behind her.

She was trapped, and Kit had deserted her.

~*~

"Please, let me go!" Greta screeched, wriggling in an attempt to free herself from the mechanical butler's brass arms. Isadora Halfacre skittered up behind her, reeking of vomit.

"Gaskon, I believe your mistress left instructions for what to do with the girl?" The relief in her voice was audible.

At the sound of Isadora's voice, Gaskon shifted, stiffening. Greta was convinced the machine was preparing to crush the life from her. She thrashed and kicked, screaming at the top of her lungs.

The 'gen's arms opened, but he maintained an iron grip on her wrist as she tumbled to the ground, flailing. Greta scrambled to her feet, struggling to pull her hand free. How could Kit just walk away and leave her in danger? Her chest ached, but she didn't know whether it was from the 'gen squeezing the breath out of her or from Kit ripping her heart out between her ribs.

A hollow voice echoed from the machine. "Isadora?"

Halfacre's eyes widened in strange recognition. The woman trembled, raising a hand to her lips. Greta froze at the eerie sound. No machine could create such a plaintive, human voice.

"Hiram?" The name Halfacre uttered was a whisper, breathed with the desperate wonder of a prayer.

"Where am I? What's happened to me?" The metallic voice sounded confused, bereft. Gaskon looked down at the jointed brass arms and hands, the elaborate scrollwork of engraving which etched out a uniform on the metal body. He lifted one leg, only to drop it heavily onto the floor where he stood, nearly cracking the polished marble tile.

"What has happened to me, Isadora?" The eerie, echoing voice vibrated with horror and rising panic.

Isadora Halfacre launched herself at the machine, wrapping her arms around it, tearing at the brass casings as if she could pry them away and find her lost husband beneath.

Greta watched in mute awe.

"Hiram! My God in heaven, is that really you? She told me you'd been killed. Crushed and buried in the factory! Dear God, are you really in that . . . that machine?" She turned to Greta, eyes mad with horror. "You! You're an alchemist, like
her
. You can fix this. Change him back! Do it, or I swear I'll . . . I'll have him pull your right arms out of their sockets!"

Greta felt her stomach lurch again. She had heard tales about such ancient, forbidden alchemy. Some claimed it was possible to take the spirit from a living creature and bind it to a mechanical construct. But surely ripping out a man's very soul would kill him?

"Please believe me. I'm an alchemist, but I'm nothing like anyone who'd do this. And no formulae I know of can change flesh into metal, much less change it back."

Halfacre gripped her shoulders, shaking her till her teeth rattled. "You have to do something! I swear, if you help me get my Hiram back, I'll help you find your young man. But you can't just leave us like this!"

She recalled the old woman in Riverside Park. Her description of the wolves which had chased Kit to the cliff had puzzled her. She couldn't imagine a machine he couldn't have easily outsmarted and outmaneuvered.

Now, the story she'd heard about wolves howling inside the mansion made sense. Could Evelyn's laboratory be somewhere in this townhouse?

"I think . . . I think I may be able to help."

The 'gen leveled its glass gaze at her. Isadora slumped against him.

"What can you do?" A shiver ran down Greta's spine at the spectral sound of his voice.

"I think I know how she did this. I'm not sure how she avoided the notice of the Alchemists Guild. They have measures which are supposed to notify them if anyone attempts this kind of experiment. But I suspect the evidence will be in her laboratory."