The Brass Giant (10 page)

“Petra, I—­” He cut himself short, clearing his throat as he straightened his posture. “Thank you for bringing me here, for showing me this place,” he said. His voice sounded detached, impassive, without any of the softness of before. “It was . . . diverting.” He winced as he spoke the last word, shaking his head with a sigh.

“Yes,” she conceded, resigning herself to feigned obliviousness. She inhaled a deep breath and tried not to think of how desperately she wished to stand in his arms again. “Diverting.”

They departed the subcity in awkward silence, retreating to their usual haunt in Pemberton Square. There, she and Emmerich sat on opposite benches, sipping their flavored ices—­a distraction to keep them occupied. She tried not to think about what had happened, tried not to think of how striking he now looked in the glare of the afternoon sun, or about the fleeting touches between them in the past weeks—­the kiss on her hand, the moment he touched her cheek in the workshop, and most vividly, the embrace they had shared in the subcity.

It wasn't that she didn't want to talk about it. She
needed
to talk about it, needed to know what it meant, what had changed, but now that they had left the intimacy of the subcity, the situation required silence. It wasn't proper to talk of such things—­it wasn't proper to have let them happen, either, but only she and Emmerich knew what had transpired below.

She tried to forget the look in his eyes, the feel of his hands on her waist, and she told herself that he couldn't have entertained the same fancies she did. A man of his position could not consider such a thing, to be romantically involved with someone like her. But . . . what if he did? His face burned into her mind—­the sweat upon his brow, the uncertainty in his lips, his eyes so fiery she could burn standing too long in his gaze. If only he would have said something, told her what was on his mind, what was in his heart. If only he had not stepped away.

And yet, perhaps it was best that nothing more had happened.

To pursue those feelings, to consider such a romance, would jeopardize their friendship and their partnership. They had an automaton to build, and enough was already at risk that they didn't need to involve their hearts in the mix.

P
ETRA TRIED NO
T
to dwell on the exchange. The beat of her heart had always echoed with the ticking of a clock, and she had been content with that. She had filled the absence of family—­of love and belonging—­with clockwork, with gears, pinions, and springs. She needed only the constant rhythmic hum of a ticker to comfort her. But now her mainspring had broken. The gears were bent and warped. The hands of the clock had stopped.

And only Emmerich could fix her.

She tried to forget her feelings, but not a day had passed before Emmerich came to the pawnshop again, his face beaming with excitement.

“The materials arrived,” he told her when she descended the steps after her shift.

Excitement replaced the confusion of emotion within her, the thrill of soon seeing the machine come to life banishing all else from her mind.

She slipped back into the pawnshop, changed into her spare clothes, and they headed to the University.

When they came to the lobby, instead of guiding her to the student workshops below, Emmerich led her up the wide curved staircase to the upper workshops.

“They finally admitted me to the Guild workshops,” he said, guiding her through the neatly organized drafting tables, displays, and dark mahogany desks. “Most of the Guild initiates work on this floor, building whatever they think might impress the Guild council and advance them to the next level.” Emmerich led her up a spiral staircase in the corner, a locked door at the top, produced a key and entered. “I work up here.”

The second level of upper workshops looked much like the inside of an office building, with proper rooms branching from the halls, locked doors, and windowless walls.

“This is where Guild engineers build the more classified projects—­like the automaton.”

He led her down the rightmost hall and unlocked one of the offices near the end. She saw his name on a plaque on the door—­
EMMERICH P. GOSS
—­
and beneath it, a second plaque that read
JR. FIELD ENGINEER.
Petra hadn't realized there were different sorts of engineers within the Guild. A door opposite Emmerich's read
SR. BIOMECHANICAL EN
GINEER;
another read only
ARCHITECT.

Emmerich flipped the lights on within the office—­electric, she noted—­and guided her inside, closing the door behind her. The room itself was larger than she'd expected. A polished, cypress desk sat in the front corner near the door, similar to his desk in the student workshops. Beneath it sat the automaton prototype, propped against a crate.

The back of the office was a workshop. Several unlabeled crates had been stacked to the ceiling, and a shelf of small parts—­pinions, minuscule gears, screws, washers, bolts, and the like—­stood nearby. A miniaturized crane stuck out from the back wall, hovering over several worktables where Emmerich had already laid out the piping needed to build the automaton skeleton, as well as an assortment of saws, clamps, blowlamps, and a vast array of spanners and screwdrivers.

“Shall we begin?” he asked her.

Petra could not suppress the smile that spread across her face.

They worked for hours, sawing and bending pipes, welding joints, and bolting the frame together. She and Emmerich worked seamlessly, as if they were extensions of one another. Rarely did she have to say what tool or piece she needed next, and she knew instinctively what he needed of her with nothing more than a gesture.

By the end of the night, they had constructed the base frame for the chest and pelvis. They modeled the design as close to a human shape as possible, building two boxy, trapezoidal frames to house all the mechanisms. They planned to shape linkage rods for the legs and begin structuring the leg frames at their next meeting. With so little time until the automaton's deadline, they had to work swiftly and efficiently. Any setbacks or delays could jeopardize the project's completion.

As they were about to leave the Guild workshop floor, Emmerich pulled Petra aside. “There is something else I want to show you.”

He took her shamelessly by the hand, reminding her of the closeness they had shared just an afternoon ago, and he led her through a labyrinth of hallways and staircases. She barely noticed anything beyond the warmth of his fingers entwined in hers and the feel of her heart pulsing in her throat. When finally they stopped, she and Emmerich stood in a long carpeted hallway, wallpapered with a dark magenta damask pattern. Dust peppered the floor and lingered on the portrait frames that lined the walls. Brass plaques gleamed in the dim electric light.

“Not many ­people visit here,” said Emmerich, slowly guiding her down the hall.

Petra examined the portraits, recognizing many of the ­people as famous engineers and scientists who had contributed to the scientific movement over the last quarter century. Many of them had attended or taught at the University, if only for a short time. Édouard-­Léon Scott de Martinville, inventor of the phonautograph; Werner Siemens, renowned innovator in electrical engineering; James Clerk Maxwell, developer of the electromagnetic theory; and Charles Babbage, designer of the difference engine. The hall was filled with portraits of inventors and innovators, all men—­except one.

At the end of the passage, hanging in a gold filigree frame, was a portrait of a woman. Petra drifted to the end of the hall and read the plaque beneath the painting:
LADY ADELAIDE FRANCI
NE CHRONIKER. 1843-­
1868. FOUNDER OF CHR
ONIKER UNIVERSITY.

The lady was phenomenally stylish for an engineer, sporting an intricate hat of feathers and silk ribbon, and a cap-­sleeve bodice. Her scheming, amber eyes and soft smile suggested both cleverness and confidence.

Emmerich didn't have to explain why he had brought her to this place. Hanging around Lady Chroniker's neck was a pocket watch—­
her
pocket watch—­identical down to the gold-­wrought
C
sculpted into the front casing. It was the same watch. She knew it.

“I knew her, you know,” said Emmerich, joining her at the portrait. “When I was young, my uncle often brought me here to the University. He was an engineer himself, and he and Lady Chroniker were close friends. I often sat in on their meetings as they dreamed up new machines, technologies for the generations to come. She was a brilliant woman, so full of ideas for the future. She saw so much promise in what the innovations and imaginations of young minds could offer the world.”

He slipped his hands into his pockets, regarding the painting. “She was only eighteen when she and Vice-­Chancellor Lyndon founded the University. She believed in the purity of science, the beauty of it, and it was her ambition to see Chroniker City as the heart of scientific discovery and progress—­and she succeeded. For the last twenty years, since the school's founding, this city has been the heart of scientific advancement in all of Europe, perhaps even the world. The other polytechnic universities cannot hope to compare.” He exhaled a heavy sigh, looking upon the portrait with a sad smile. “But she died before she saw her vision realized.”

“What happened?”

“The University fire,” he said with a frown. “She died in the Luddite attack—­her and many others, including my uncle.”

The same fire that Petra had survived.

Petra swallowed thickly, a sudden surge of emotion burning her throat. She looked into Lady Chroniker's eyes, wishing she were still alive. She wanted to meet her, someone who might be proud of her, but more importantly, someone who understood what it was like to be a female engineer. Her gaze slipped to the pocket watch in the portrait, the same pocket watch now in Petra's possession. Whoever she had been to this woman, whatever importance they once had for one another, she could not remember. Perhaps Lady Chroniker had been the one to give her the pocket watch. Perhaps she had been the one to inscribe her love in the casing.

A tear slid down Petra's cheek as she felt the loss of a woman she never knew, never got the chance to know. It was unfair that she had died so young.

Petra sighed and pressed a trembling hand to the painting, tears falling in earnest now. Her fingertips brushed the oily surface, and beneath the paint and canvas, she felt the steady thrum of machines behind the wall, eerily similar to a heartbeat.

 

Chapter 8

P
ETRA HATED LYING,
especially to Mr. Stricket.

When he asked about her plans for the evening, she could say nothing about the automaton, nothing about the Guild or the University, or Emmerich. She merely smiled and told him she had some personal things to take care of, wishing she didn't have to keep the project secret. Tolly just rolled his eyes.

That night, she and Emmerich planned to start on the leg mechanisms, building the frames and testing the range of movement before permanently attaching the linkage apparatus to the prototype.

At the end of her shift, she changed into her spare clothes—­now on permanent loan from Solomon—­and bid Mr. Stricket and Tolly farewell from the back room so they wouldn't see her wearing her brother's clothes. Slinging her pack over her shoulder, she slipped into the alleyway through the back door and started toward the University. But then the door to the shop creaked open behind her, and she turned around to see Tolly step into the dark alley.

Petra gripped the straps of her pack and backed away. “What do you want?”

“You're going off to meet him again, aren't you?”

“It's my business what I do in my spare time, Tolly, not yours.” She shook her head and started toward the street, but he grabbed her by the shoulder and whirled her around to face him.

His cold blue eyes were electric in the darkness of the alley. “Why him?” he asked, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

“What?”

“What does
he
have that I don't?” He stepped closer and raised a hand to her face, his voice softening. “What can he give you that I can't?”

She shied away from his touch, her heart racing as she realized what he was saying, what he was asking. “Tolly . . .” she said, shaking her head. “This isn't—­you shouldn't—­”

He grabbed her chin and forced her to look at him. “Why him and not me?”

Petra bristled. She slapped his hand from her face and pressed both her hands against his chest, shoving him away, but he grabbed her by the wrists and pinned her against the wall, his grip painfully tight. She struggled against his grasp, her hat tumbling from her head and letting her braid fall free.

“I cared for you, Petra,” he said, his voice cracking as he leaned closer. “I still do.”

She gritted her teeth. “You have a funny way of showing it.”

“I thought you cared for me too,” he said. “And then some University fop catches your eye and you barely even acknowledge I exist anymore. We used to do things together. We used to talk. I used to think that maybe you and I—­that we could—­” He closed his eyes and exhaled sharply, his nostrils flaring. “Why did you have to change?”

Heat flushed through her body, and she wrenched her arms free of his grasp. “I didn't change—­
you
did!” she said, shoving him in the chest. He staggered backward, and she pushed him again, harder. “
You
changed.
You
drove us apart when you chose to be just like your father, when you decided that I was your property and not your equal, when you laughed at me and made fun of my dreams, my ambitions—­
that
was when I turned from you, long before I ever met Emmerich.”

“You think he is any different than me—­than any other man? He may pretend to care about you, but deep down he knows that you are beneath him, that he is better than you.”

“No,” she said. “You're wrong. He is ten times the man you are.” Her skin tingled, euphoria welling up inside her. “You want to know why
him
and not you? Because
he
believes in me. He respects me. He cares about what I have to say, what I want to do with my life. He treats me like an equal and doesn't expect anything from me in return.” Her throat tightened and her heartbeat quickened. “And you . . . You are vindictive and cruel, a spiteful, hateful man, and you are
nothing
compared to him.”

Tolly slapped her.

Petra stumbled backward into the wall and raised a hand to her stinging face, a burning rage swelling within her. She glared at him, every muscle in her body quivering. “Is it really any wonder why I would choose him instead of you?”

He stepped closer, and she flinched away, bracing for the next strike, but it never came. Instead, she felt his fingers graze her burning cheek. She recoiled from the touch, but he forced her to look at him, his cold blue eyes lingering on her lips.

“I'm sorry,” he said quietly. “I shouldn't have struck you.”

Petra inhaled a shaky breath, aware of how close he stood, his breath on her face, his hand in her hair. Her skin prickled beneath his touch, and she pressed herself against the cool brick behind her. “What do you want, Tolly?”

“I want
you
, Petra,” he said, looking deep into her eyes. “I could give you everything—­a comfortable life, a home, children.”

She blinked, a frown tightening her brow as she searched his eyes. “That's what you don't understand . . . I don't want comfortable. I don't want to sit at home all day doing needlework and watching after children. I want to
build
things. I want to
be
someone.” She swallowed thickly. “You can never give me that.”

“I could,” he said leaning closer. “If you let me.”

She felt her heart seize in her throat, paralyzed by his closeness. “Tolly—­”

He forcefully pressed his lips against hers, stealing her breath from her lungs with a deep, deliberate kiss. She felt instantly numb, unable to move, unable to breathe, feeling his mouth against hers, his hands firm on her neck, cradling her head as he leaned harder into her lips. His body crushed her against the wall, and she felt her heart explode with effort, hammering against her chest with the force of a hundred pistons.

Adrenaline pumped through her veins, and her muscles tensed as she gained control of herself and wedged her arms between them. She tried shoving him away, but he was too strong, pinning her against the wall again with the full weight of his body. He wrestled her hands down even as she tried to hit him, trapping her legs as she tried to maneuver herself out from beneath him.

He drew back with a breath and said, “All you have to do is love me, Petra. Stay with me, choose
me
, and you will have everything I can give you, everything you could ever need.”

She struggled against his grasp but could hardly move. “No,” she said, spitting in his face.

With a growl, Tolly reared back to hit her again, but Petra was ready for it. She ducked under his hand as he swung, and his hand collided with the rough brick. As he reeled back from the wall with a snarl, she kicked him in the side of the knee and turned to run.

She only took one step toward freedom when a yank on her braid brought her crashing to the ground. The breath left her lungs as she landed hard on the cobblestones, her shoulder stinging from the impact. Tolly loomed over her, and there was a dark fire in his eyes, a look that made her heart quail.

Footsteps sounded in the alley, and suddenly a fist connected with Tolly's jaw, knocking him cleanly to the ground. Petra took the chance to move out of the way, rolling onto her hands and knees and clambering to her feet. She plastered herself against the wall, breathing heavily as Tolly stood, gingerly touching the bloody gash in his bottom lip.

Standing between them was Emmerich, his fists clenched at his sides. He glanced at her. “Petra, are you all right? Did he—­”

His question was cut short as Tolly leapt at him, landing a kick to his leg and an elbow to his ribs. Emmerich tumbled to the ground, and the two of them scuffled across the alley, a flurry of kicks and punches, curses and grunts of pain as they each landed blows. Emmerich righted himself and wiped a stream of blood from his brow before taking another blow from Tolly, knocking both of them into the street. Tolly attacked without mercy, beating Emmerich down even as he crossed his arms over his face and curled up against the onslaught, unable to fight back.

Then another man came forward, appearing out of the alley opposite the pawnshop. He grabbed Tolly by the collar and dragged him off of Emmerich. “Enough,” he said, his voice gruff and weary.

Emmerich lay in the street, his right eye swollen and blood flowing freely from his nose. Tolly looked no better. Blood dripped from a cut across his cheek, and a massive welt purpled his jaw, streaked with the blood oozing from his bottom lip. He struggled to escape the stranger's grasp. “Let go of me,” he snarled.

The man obliged, flinging Tolly away. “Go on,” he said, shoving him back as Tolly started forward again. “You've done enough here. Go, before I call the bobbies on you.”

Tolly glared at the man, then gave both Emmerich and Petra a murderous look before storming away.

The stranger loped forward and helped Emmerich to his feet. “All right, son?”

Emmerich winced, holding his ribs. “Yeah,” he hissed. “I'll be all right. Thanks.”

The stranger nodded and then disappeared back into the shadows, leaving as silently as he had arrived.

Emmerich staggered back into the alley, wincing with each breath. “Petra, are you all right?” he asked, limping toward her. He looked worse up close. Blood and grime caked his handsome face, his eye red and swollen. “Are you hurt? Tell me what happened.”

Petra just shook her head, her heart still racing.

Emmerich grimaced and leaned against the wall, catching his breath. His eyes drifted to her tender cheek, and he gently raised his fingers to her face. “Did he hurt you?”

She recoiled from his touch and pressed her hand against the side of her face where Tolly had struck her. Her skull ached beneath the tender skin, but it would do no more than bruise. “It's nothing,” she said quietly.

“Petra . . .” Emmerich winced again. “What happened?”

“I—­” She pressed her lips together. She could still feel Tolly's hot breath on her face, his mouth pressed to hers, the feel of his hands on her neck, and his body pressed hard against her. She shuddered. “I don't want to talk about it.”

Emmerich stared at her, concern in his eyes. “Petra, if I need to take you home, if you would rather not—­”

“No,” she said firmly. “I don't want to go home.” She couldn't go home. She needed a distraction. She needed to take her mind off what had happened. “We should work.”

“Are you sure? You seem . . . upset.”

“Of course I'm upset!” She squeezed her eyes shut and bit down hard on her lip. Tears welled up in her eyes and an aching pressure weighed on her chest, but she refused to cry. She refused to show weakness, to be the victim, to let Tolly have the satisfaction of rattling her nerves. Inhaling a deep breath, she opened her eyes again, curling her hands into fists. “I'm fine,” she said evenly. “Really.”

Emmerich pressed his lips together in a firm line. “If you're sure . . .”

“I am.”

He hesitantly reached out to lay his hand on her shoulder, but she drew away. She didn't want to be touched. She didn't want to talk. She wanted a screwdriver in her hand and a machine to build. Without another word she headed for the University.

I
N
E
MMERICH'S WORKSHOP,
they crafted the leg linkages in silence. While he tested rod shapes and angles, Petra fitted washers and turned screws and bolts, neither of them speaking. She noticed him staring at her while they worked, glancing away the moment she looked his way, but still she said nothing.

What happened in the alley was between her and Tolly, and no one could erase the things that were said or done, not even Emmerich, as well-­meaning as he was. Figuring out what to do next was something she would have to work out for herself.

Without their usual playful banter and the occasional long-­winded debate on efficient gear train makeup, she and Emmerich worked twice as fast, finishing both leg linkages after only four hours of silent labor. Had it been an ordinary night, they might not have finished the mechanisms until the evening was nearly spent, and though Petra's hands ached and her fingers were sore, she did not want to end the night just yet.

Watching the hand-­powered motion of the legs in full stride filled her with pride. They had yet to build the pulleys, drives, sliders, or assemble the gear trains, but the base leg frames worked flawlessly.

“We should start on the arms,” she said, fetching pieces from the crates stacked in the corner. It would be hours more before she would be too tired to work. She wanted that. She wanted to return home so drained that she'd pass out as soon as she lay down on her cot. No dreams. No time to think of what had happened that day. Just pure, solid sleep.

When she turned back to the workbench, Emmerich stood in her way, arms crossed over his chest. She stepped left to circumnavigate, but he stepped in front of her. Frowning, she stepped the other way, and he blocked her again.

“What?” she snapped.

He stepped forward, taking the things out of her arms—­pipes, bolts, bearings, and scrap bits of titanium filler—­carefully placing them on the floor. With her arms empty, Petra suddenly felt useless, her hands hanging limply at her sides as if they didn't belong to her body.

Her throat began to ache, and she felt the heat of tears behind her eyes. “What are you—­”

Emmerich stepped forward and wrapped his arms tightly around her shoulders, silencing her as he hugged her close to his chest. She stood still, only vaguely feeling the warmth of his body against her, as if she was trapped inside a body that wanted to be numb. He smoothed her hair, whispering words of comfort in her ear, words she would rather not hear.

Didn't he understand? She wanted to be left alone. She needed freedom.