Clockwork Souls (15 page)

“Enough.” He cleared his throat. “It is not your—the—more
discreet abilities that I’ll be needing.”

She was, as always, grateful that her complexion was not
prone to blushes. It was a safe guess that blushing was not meant to be in her
repertoire.

In the quick flicker of a glance she allowed herself before
lowering her gaze, she noted that it was his cheeks that stained red. How
confusing. He’d ordered the Courtesan Model, after all. If not for sexual
congress, then why? And yet she could hardly ask for clarification.

“If you would honor me with an explanation of this unwanted
and unexpected change . . .”

“The model you ordered did not satisfy the rigorous testing
demanded of a Nova Model Automaton upon activation. It exhibited an unfortunate . . .”
She paused delicately. “
Tendency
.”

“
Tendency
?” he repeated, alarmed. “What sort of
tendency?”

“You indicated a preference not to discuss our more discreet
abilities.”

His face blanched.

This was truly too easy.

He cleared his throat, suddenly eyeing her even more warily.
“How can I trust that you are more reliable than the model I ordered turned out
to be?”

“Because Mr. Claggmarten sent me in her stead, Professor.”
Her sister’s governess had never chided so sternly.

“May I?” His question was no question, but instead a clear
demand, as he took the carpetbag from her, and dropped it, startled. It
clanked.

Was that a soft hiss of steam coming from within? Or a . . .
sigh? She maintained her rigid pose.

Was the pulse at her throat beating as wildly as it felt?
Did her fichu hide it?

He took her left hand in his and bent it this way and that,
curling her fingers, flexing her thumb, and finally flipped a coin high. “Catch
it.”

Her hand shot out of its own volition and snatched the coin
out of the air.

His snort sounded less than satisfied. He then took her
right hand and opened it, splaying her fingers wide. With agonizing slowness,
he dragged a finger across her palm. She stood frozen, her palm tickled as if
stroked by a feather, the need to yank her hand away overwhelming. She could do
nothing; she could not stop its flesh from twitching.

He stroked her palm again, clearly intrigued by the twitch.

She wanted to jerk her hand away, to slap him, and yet here
she stood, once again forced to accept the attentions of those who held
themselves her superior.

But this time would be different. This would be the
last
time.

She could tolerate anything, knowing that.

Twelve hours. She must remain hidden from the Patrol for
twelve more hours.

And so she stood frozen as he lifted her hand higher and
blew across her knuckles. “Amazing.” He released her.

She felt his gaze piercing into her but she did not raise
her lashes, could not raise her lashes, could not risk betraying herself.

“You are almost lifelike,” he announced.

Almost
.

She stifled a wild laugh.

“Your hands appear to be as dexterous and as small as the
French model I ordered. Thus, I hope you will be adequate. However, I shall
write to Mr. Claggmarten to voice my displeasure that—”

“I will provide you with the proper form, sir.”

“I am not a Sir. I am a Professor.”

“Professor, I will provide the form. I will also deliver it
for you. Satisfaction is guaranteed, and delivering your remarks to my creator
is one of my . . .
duties
.” If the inventor of the
Nova-Model Exquisite Female Automaton hadn’t designed the voice to curl seductively
around that word, well, they should have done so.

He flushed crimson again. “Eglantine,” he said, using her
name after all, she noted. “In future, do remember that I define your duties.”

He whirled away from her and strode back to his desk so
quickly, he seemed to be making a retreat. But the way he sank into his chair
and leaned back and studied her as if she were on exhibit for his curiosity,
left her quite unsettled.

“Your lifelike appearance is confusing me. In fact, I’m
quite certain I don’t care for it, not one little bit. If I could have
purchased a less lifelike automaton with your unusual abilities I would
certainly have done so.”

He finally dismissed her with a flick of his long fingers. “Your
trunk was delivered this morning. It is in a room on the top floor. Mr.
Claggmarten did not indicate you would need so much . . . gear.
I went to open it—”

He had opened her trunk?
Calm . . .
calm
. She blinked once. Slowly.

“—but it was quite secured.”

“It is filled with spare parts for use in England,” she
said. “To be shipped tomorrow.”

“Oh well, it doesn’t signify right now.” He glared at her
over the tops of his spectacles. “It is time to put you to the test, and for
all our sakes, I pray you are capable of all your creator promised.” He flung
his papers out of his way and rose to his feet. “Follow me.”

Longing for bed, for a quiet place where she could shiver
and quake, longing for a water closet—she did the only thing she could. She
followed him.

He strode quickly up the stairs and then down a dark hallway.
Dust clung ominously to the baseboards and drifted in the air as they passed,
disappearing into darkness between the dim glow of inadequately spaced
gaslights. Clearly he should have acquired an automatomical servant to actually
clean. Rips and tears wounded the dismal wallpapered walls, and occasional dark
smears of something unidentified. A heavy odor of grease, coal smoke, and
electrical ozone assailed her from somewhere in the distance, and she knew from
grim experience this was not a good combination.

And it was getting stronger, the farther they walked.

His stride was so quick and nervous that he left her behind.
He went straight past a corridor opening on the right, but before she reached
it, a stuttering click-click-click-scrape came from that direction.

She paused mid-step as a mechanical beast of some sort—quite
the tiniest and certainly the most hirsute she believed she’d ever seen—lurched
its way in front of her, cocked its head, and followed the professor. Its hair
was apparently white at one time and possibly even fluffy, but now was matted
and dark around the joints. It also emitted a vastly unfortunate dribble of
what must be oil from its posterior.

Flickering her eyes quickly between the floor and the back
of the man ahead of her managed to avoid stepping into the spots it left
behind. But she’d gone scarcely six steps before he froze in front of her, his
back rigid.

“Miss Eglantine,” he announced precisely, without turning, “please
dispose of the creature.”

Dispose
. The heavy weight of her carpetbag grew
heavier, but she fought the urge to drop it.

“In what manner?” She managed to keep her voice crisp.

“Shove it into a box. Close it in a room. Whatever method
presents itself first.”

The ‘creature,’ however, quite quivered with what appeared
to be excitement, almost like a living dog upon approaching its master, and the
click-click-click-scrape increased in tempo.

“Miss Eglantine!” he snapped.

She scooped it into her hands just before it reached him. A
quick examination proved that the left rear leg was bent, resulting in the
dragging-scrape as it lurched forward. She pondered whether it could be
adjusted or repaired.

“I’m waiting.” And yet he did not turn or speak directly to
her.

She searched for a switch and found none. She finally turned
into the hall whence it had emerged and opened the first door on the right. Her
intake of breath was silent, she prayed.

A nightmare vision spread before her of an ungodly number
and variety of automatons—ripped apart with gaping holes, patches of charred
exteriors, and limbs with dangling bits and bobs of brass chains, exposed
cylinders, and bent gears.

She clutched the mechanical dog instinctively, not wanting
to close it in with what felt eerily like gore and death. The dog’s feet moved
mechanically beneath its body—a windup toy seeking traction to continue its way
across the floor.

She closed the corridor door, then set the creature down and
aimed it toward the opposite wall. After opening her carpetbag, she silently placed
its contents amongst the disturbing remains of clockwork corpses—the precisely
disassembled and disemboweled Nova-Model Exquisite Female Model the professor
had ordered.

Within moments she heard a repeated click-click-click-scrape
followed by a bump on the other side of the door. It was bumping against the
door in its quest to escape. She opened the door enough for the dog to escape
and placed it carefully into the carpet bag, hoping the enclosed darkness would
soothe it to sleep. And quiet.

Twelve hours, she promised herself. No, eleven and one half
by now. Stealing the money had been all too easy, and she refused to feel
guilt. But it was all for naught if she didn’t stay safely hidden until the
next morning.

When she turned placidly—heart pounding erratically—into the
corridor, the professor resumed his pace. Gratefully, she focused on
maintaining her guise. “It is a very determined and sturdily-built piece of
machinery.”

“It’s an abomination.”

“Indeed?” He was leaving her behind again.

“Your inventor,” he said, as if the word were a lemon, “took
my beloved, departed pet’s body without my permission and turned it into
that—that thing—and expected me to be pleased.”

The movement jarring the carpetbag in her hand suddenly made
her ill.

He stopped. He pivoted. “Please tell me that all of his
devices are not built from the bodies of once-living beings.”

“I have never witnessed the creation of a device, nor did I
have a memory installed of my own creation.”

He stared at her and only the dim light saved her from
revealing some hint of her own dismay.

But this was not her problem. The creation of devices was
not her problem. The destruction of devices she’d left behind did not concern
her. Not even the abomination in her carpetbag should be her problem, and she heartily
regretted succumbing to the urge to rescue it.

Staying undiscovered until noontime most certainly was her
only problem. She renewed her determination to do just that.

The professor passed a door that stood ajar, revealing a
basin and tap within.

“Professor,” she announced, brooking no backtalk. “If that
is a water source, I must withdraw for a few moments to refill my reservoir.”

“Good heavens!” He spun on his heel again to stare at her
with wide eyes. “You actually are steam-powered?” He stepped forward, reaching
as if to examine her torso. “How long can you run without more water? Must we
stop right now?” And then, clearly unable to refrain himself, “Where does the
steam escape? I can’t imagine how such a lifelike and subtly crafted clockwork
uses steam. This is most intriguing.”

By her calculation, the water closet was four steps away. “If
I might be so bold, you have made it clear that time is vital. I would not
suggest an adjustment and refill if it were not necessary.”

“Oh, if only it were my brother carrying out these wretched
orders,” he said. “But no, his lordship resides blithely in Wiltshire
overseeing his vast estate whilst he has tasked me with stopping General Sherman
before he blows up our family’s textile mills in Atlanta!” The professor spat. “He
treats my scientific enquiries as if they are merely a hobby for him to exploit
at will to protect his financial holdings. As if the ability to drop a directed
bomb precisely upon Sherman is worth redirecting my talents, when I have—I have
inventions of my own in London waiting for me!”

This—this educated, wealthy, spoiled professor wanted to
complain about familial demands? If he continued whining in this way, she would
explode.

She took slow, shallow breaths. The war was not her concern.
She cared not who won or how, as long as she remained hidden for the night and
escaped on the morrow.

“It’s under your skirt, is it not? A reservoir in
your—posterior? Perhaps you have twin reservoirs where the gluteus maximus
would be.”

She captured his gaze with hers and held it, even as she
began slowly raising her skirts. “My apologies, professor. I misunderstood your . . .
desires. As you want to examine my body . . .” She slowly raised
her skirts to expose the laces of her boots, her stockings, her knees—

“Dash it all, that is not what I—I told you, I did not
acquire you to fulfill the purposes of a—those purposes!”

Flustered, he fluttered his hands at her. “Never mind. There
is no time. No time at all. Do what you must and follow. The stairs are at the
end of the corridor.”

He hurried ahead of her most satisfactorily.

If she had thought his preliminary tests of her dexterity
had satisfied him, she had been most sadly mistaken. Once they reached their
destination, tucked away in a corner of the attic, furnished with an array of
apparatus, equipment and scientific novelties, he checked her hands once again.
He scowled and checked items off a list in his composition book as he had her
lift various things from a heavy lead brick to a pin, to a marble-topped
laboratory table.