Terra Mechanica: A Steampunk Anthology (27 page)

Winnie squeezed her cousin’s shoulder. “I’ll express your regrets. I’m certain they understand.”

As she exited the room, her aunt said to her, “Maybe I was wrong. I don’t believe I’ve seen Mr. De Falco looking quite so respectable since Isabella died.”

Winnie met with De Falco and Joshua in the drawing room, which really wasn’t much larger than Grace’s bedroom, if far less cluttered. Winnie liked it. It was intimate.

Mr. De Falco wore a black lounge suit with a winged-collared shirt and a black bowtie. At some point that day, he had found an opportunity to get his hair cut and beard trimmed. Physically, he now resembled the man Winnie had seen in the slicks. But the inventor she’d read about had been a legend, a fiction of journalists. The Francesco De Falco standing in greeting was just a man. She decided she preferred the latter.

Joshua, imitating De Falco, also stood in greeting. She offered her hand to De Falco, and he held it a half a beat longer than expected. Joshua gave her hand a pumping handshake. Winnie laughed gently as she they sat down.

“I wanted to thank Grace for the invitation to the wedding,” De Falco said.

“I’ll take the message to her. She’s indisposed at the moment.”

“I also wanted to thank you again for what you did for me. I feel as though I’ve been rescued by the three Musketeers. Joshua has a genius mind. Miss Grace is an expert marksman, shooting the knife right out of that man’s hand—”

 “She told me she was actually aiming for his chest. Her father taught us to shoot when we were younger, but we haven’t shot guns in years.”

“Really?” De Falco laughed. “Please inform her that when I tell the story, it will always be a deliberate shot.”

Winnie heard a giggle upstairs. Smiling, she said, “Consider her informed.”

De Falco beamed. “And you. You were wonderful.”

“What did I do?”

“You were the . . . instigator. The architect of our escape.” Winnie started to protest, but then noticed Joshua tapping on his knee, just outside of De Falco’s vision. Winnie feigned total attention on De Falco while watching Joshua’s silent finger movements out of the corner of her eye.

De Falco continued. “You are a quick-thinker and quite resourceful. I shudder to think where I’d be now, if it weren’t for you—all three of you, of course.”

Joshua tapped, “Also says you are beautiful.”

Winnie felt her heart pump faster, as if to push blood directly into her cheeks. She glanced down at the floor to hide it. “My, that is quite the compliment.”

“More fact than compliment,” De Falco said, oblivious. “I would be dead or a prisoner. But more to the point, I would, ah . . .” He cleared his throat, gathering courage. “Would it be permissible if I were to call upon you again? After your cousin’s wedding, of course?”

Winnie looked back up at him, hoping her flush wasn’t too noticeable. “Of course.”

“I would just like to get to know you better. When we are not locked in supply closets. Or held at gunpoint.”

Winnie allowed herself the hint of a smirk. “But Mr. De Falco, where’s the fun in that?”

Even twenty-five years later, Marina still dreamt of the accident. Her father had often warned her away from the tools in his workshop, but like any rambunctious four-year-old, the words hardly stuck. The details were faint in her sleep-deprived  mind—merely flashes of the buzz saw and flying debris—but the pain was remarkably real, the scent of blood pungent, her breathing erratic—

“Marina?”

The whispered voice and gentle shaking of her shoulder broke through the disjointed memory, though not enough to fully disengage her from the panicked cries of her father, the searing, throbbing pain along her arm, her vision going red—

“Marina! Wake up!”

The familiar voice broke though again, and Marina groggily opened her eyes. She slowly sat up, the sudden absence of pain feeling almost strange. She rubbed the skin around the metal stub of her right arm. Though too dark to see any details, even with the flickering sunrise peering in through the window, Marina could still make out the concerned face of the young girl standing next to her. “Sorry for waking you, Larissa.”

“It wasn’t you.” Larissa shrugged. “It’s cold in here.”

Marina slid out of bed, shivering when her feet touched the cold concrete that served as their floor. “I’m starting up the fire now; go climb in my bed.” Larissa wasted no time obeying and Marina loaded the large furnace. When she was confident a suitable flame had begun to burn, she returned to her bed, allowing herself a slight grin at the content lump curled in the center of her blankets. Marina’s smile soon turned mischievous, and she grabbed the bundle in her arms and squeezed it tight, ignoring the giggling angst that emanated from within. “Are you warmer now?”

Her sister’s reply was almost comically muffled. “I can’t breathe!”

Marina chuckled as she let her free, instead, laying beside her and pulling her into a loose embrace. “How about now?”

Larissa pushed her mechanized arm away. “Your hand is so cold.”

Marina’s gaze returned to her mutilated arm. The break was just below her elbow, an inch-long stump remaining of her own flesh after the bend. A metal fuse was attached to the end, a variety of gears and wires interconnecting within, allowing a variety of attachments to fit it. Her father’s own invention; he had both ruined her life and enhanced it in a single move.

Her mind’s wanderings were interrupted by Larissa snuggling closer into her chest, and Marina took special care to avoid any metal-on-skin contact. Their quiet moment was interrupted by the booming chime of the enormous clock situated in the center of Leningrad. Six chimes—Marina’s heart sank. More so when she felt the slight tensing of the small body lying next to her. “So you have to go now?”

“We talked about this, Larissa. I have a job to do.”

“They can’t leave without you; you’re the pilot. What if you just decided to be late?”

Marina bit back a grin at that. “An excellent point, my dear. Oh, that I were dealing with poorer patrons.” She slipped away from Larissa and into the chill morning air, taking a few steps to the small basket of work clothes she kept. She quickly slipped into her gear—already assembled from the night before—and was dressed in mere minutes, before allowing her gaze to wander back to where her sister huddled for warmth.

Though the stove burned intensely, Larissa still shivered, having always been particularly susceptible to the cold. Marina had always hoped the child would age out of it, but even as she had grown into the lanky, insightful seven-year-old she was, nothing had changed.

“I’ll be back before you know it,” Marina assured her, noticing the way Larissa stared forlornly at the ceiling. “Comrade Yeltsov will take care of you, as always.” Thankfully, Naina Yeltsov, the landlady who owned the little basement they called home, held a soft-spot for orphans. “And I’ll bring you back something extra special for your birthday.”

Larissa’s eyes shone in the faint light. “Really?”

Marina nodded. “Maybe I’ll kidnap a tiger kitten from Asia”—Larissa smiled at that—“or steal a jeweled dagger from a sky pirate over the Pacific—”

“Please don’t meet a pirate, Marina.”

“I would never,” Marina continued. “But if I don’t, I’ll probably just have to get you a boring gift, like new work gloves.” She shrugged with a mock nonchalance. “I’ve heard they make good ones in America—”

“I don’t want
gloves
.”

“Oh?” Marina feigned surprise. “And what would you want, then?”

Larissa watched her closely as she bit her lip thoughtfully. Eventually, she settled on a shrug.

Marina chuckled softly. “I have to go—”

“Wait! You’re not wearing your aviator goggles!” Larissa jumped from the bed and dug them out from the same box as Marina’s clothes. They were cheaply made and entirely useless for Marina’s purposes—her gondola was entirely covered, so she would not be exposed to the open air—but she accepted them anyway when Larissa slipped them into her hand. She knew how much the girl loved them, for whatever ineffable, endearing reason.

With Larissa’s help, Marina fitted them over her head and smiled. “I would certainly be lost without these.” Still kneeling, and thus at eye level with her sister, she pulled her into her arms and sighed contentedly. “I’ll see you again soon. You can count the days.”

Larissa held her tight, unwilling to let go of her only family just yet. “You promise?”

“I promise.”

“But what is wrong with him, Marina? Andrei is a good man, he’s stable! He isn’t one of those rioting lunatics. He has a future!”

Marina has long learned to simply ignore the ravings of her step-mother. She simply stands, ignoring the cursing that follows, until she turns to leave and slams the door on their one-room home. The quiet, frigid evening still could not compare to the cold of Dina’s words.

Marina slowly exhales, watching intently as her visible breath rises up into the air.

Merely seconds later, her father appears behind her. Marina doesn’t have to turn around to know his kind though disapproving gaze. “I already know how this conversation will go.”

“So do I.” Nikita’s words are gentle. “You know once that baby is born, she will be more agreeable, so—”

“. . . so try to get along with her until then, for me?’ I know.” Marina shuffles her feet, crushing the old snow beneath them. “And then I ask why you married her, since we’ve always been our own team.”

“And I counter that love can do strange things to a man’s heart. But then remind you that no one has taken your place.”

Marina stares down at her large footprints, larger still from her boots. “It doesn’t change that—”

“No one has taken your place, Marina,” Nikita repeats slowly. “You are still my angel, my
milakha
.” He’s silent as he lets her childhood nickname ring into the night. “When your mother died, I nearly lost hope. I was left with a few pennies from my former father-in-law and an infant daughter. So I threw all my money into investments and all of my love into you.”

It is a story Marina knows well, in great detail, but this time her father’s words provides the comfort she so desperately needs. “And somehow, we survived, and both my money and my love have grown.”

Marina continues staring at the ground, denying herself the glimmer of a smile that threatens to crack her stony demeanor.

“Dina is a good woman,” Nikita continues, “and she cares about your greatly, even if she has different ideas about how a young lady should act. Be who you are; she will accept it in time.” He turns back to the door, but adds, “I certainly like who you are. Very much.”

And then he returns inside and Marina is alone, feeling warmth and comfort despite her bitter surroundings.