The Brass Giant (12 page)

“Petra?”

“Luddites,” muttered Emmerich.

The girls jumped at his voice, even Matron.

“We—­We just came from the University,” she said, her throat aching. “There was an attack.”

“Who is he?” asked Esther, hovering over him.

Petra frowned at her. “Does it matter? Open the door.”

“Do as she says,” said Matron.

They climbed the stairs and stepped into the flat, immediately crowded by the youngest of Petra's siblings. Constance shooed them away as Matron gave orders to the oldest among them.

“Esther, the tweezers, scissors, and gauze. Emily, whatever clean towels we have. Susan, get me a needle and fetch some thread. Helena, your toy box.” The girls scattered, and with a grunt of effort, Etta gestured to the bedroom. “Let's lie him down on my bed,” she said, repositioning Emmerich's arm around her shoulders before helping Petra carry him the rest of the way. They laid him on the mattress, resting him on his stomach. Matron lit the lantern on the nightstand. “You sit with him,” she said, shaking the match out. “And make sure he stays still. I'll be right back.” She vanished through the bedroom door, leaving Petra alone.

Petra sat on the floor next to the bed and stared at Emmerich, his face slick with sweat and streaked with dirt and blood and soot. She carefully brushed his dark hair from his eyes, an agitated frown twitching across his brow. He inhaled a shallow breath and winced.

“You'll be all right,” she whispered, gently stroking his hair. “You're in good hands with Etta. She'll fix you up just fine.”

He only grumbled in reply, already fading out of consciousness.

Petra chewed on her lip. If she hadn't been so foolish, if she had stayed away from the square, stayed away from the destruction, he wouldn't have needed to shield her from the grenades. He wouldn't be here now, bleeding all over the place.

Matron returned with the supplies and a bottle of gin, setting the towels on the mattress and the rest on the nightstand next to the bed. She poured a bit of alcohol into the toy tin and then dropped the tweezers, scissor blades, and needle in. Then, setting the bottle aside, she started tearing the gauze into squares.

“I'm going to need you to hold him still,” she said, removing the sterilized tools from the toy tin. She dipped her hands into the alcohol and poured some onto a towel before passing the bottle to Petra. “When he wakes, you make him drink a good bit of that. It'll help him get through it. This isn't going to be pleasant.”

Gingerly, she cut away what was left of Emmerich's shirt. Where the metal stuck into his back, the skin was swollen and blood oozed out with each labored breath.

Matron pressed her hand into his shoulder and took hold of the largest scrap of metal. “God be with you, my boy.”

Emmerich's scream pierced Petra like a knife.

M
ATRON DROPPED
THE
final sliver of metal in the tin box and began stitching up the last of his wounds, working quickly with the needle and dark thread. Petra counted thirty-­seven pieces of metal in all, and she had sat there beside him for every hiss and cry of pain, every stitch, every bandage. Emmerich lay on the bed shivering, in and out of consciousness.

“Help me lift him.”

Petra washed her hands and carefully lifted Emmerich into a sitting position. She held him steady by his shoulders while Matron bandaged his back, wrapping gauze around his chest to keep the dressings in place. His eyes fluttered open as she wrapped his lower back.

“Petra . . .” he whispered, momentarily focusing on her face.

“I'm here, Emmerich,” she said, clasping his hands.

Matron removed the bedsheet from underneath him and rubbed the bloodstained mattress with what was left of the laundry soap. She stole sheets and blankets from the dresser in the corner of the living room and remade the bed. Petra helped tuck the sheets under the mattress and fluffed the flat pillow as best she could.

“You lay down, dear,” said Matron, pressing Emmerich into the bed. She poured a liberal dose of gin into his mouth and made sure he swallowed. “You need rest now.”

“Thank you,” he said, settling into the bed. He quickly drifted to sleep, light snores soon escaping his mouth.

Matron wiped her forehead and gestured for Petra to sit. Petra slumped against the wall, and Etta sat down on a stool in front of her.

“Now, tell me what happened.”

Petra blinked, unwilling to recall what she had seen. The burning . . . the blood . . . the screams . . . So much violence. So much death. She wrapped her arms around her knees and stared at the floor. She felt sick.

“Petra, focus. I need to know what happened. Tell me everything.”

She frowned, staring at Emmerich's sleeping form. “He said—­” Her voice cracked. “He said they—­the Luddites—­ignited the gas lines, infiltrated the University. They had explosives.”

She swallowed, remembering the smell of char in the air, the stench of blood. Closing her eyes, she imagined the destruction as a far off nightmare, only barely able to relay all she had seen—­the Luddites, the Guild militia firing on the square, the fires, the explosions, the death.

“He shielded me,” she said finally, her voice low. She turned her gaze on Emmerich again, breathing fitfully in his sleep. “There was a grenade, and—­” A bitter taste filled her mouth, and she shook her head, unable to say any more. Her throat ached from speaking and she was too drained to go on. All she wanted to do was sleep, to lie down and not wake up for a week.

Matron rose to her feet and cursed under her breath, wiping sweat from her brow. Her hands trembled. “I don't want to believe that it's happened again,” she whispered, holding a shaking hand to her forehead. She sat back down and smoothed her graying hair. “It was bad enough the first time.”

Petra stared at Matron Etta, suddenly wide-­awake. “What happened that day?” Her heart thudded heavily in her throat. “You never told me much about it,” she said quietly.

Matron glanced up, and there were tears in her eyes. “That's because it was . . .” She shook her head. “It was
terrible
. We got a telegraph at the hospital: emergency at the University. We didn't get more than that, only that it was urgent and there was a fire. We had no idea what to expect, thinking maybe a fire had broken out and we'd need to apply first aid to a few burn victims as they made their way to the hospital.” She shook her head. “We were so unprepared . . .

“The roof was starting to collapse when I arrived, the whole building ablaze.” A frown wrinkled her brow, and she continued, “I remember standing there in shock, staring at the flames, not ready for what I was suddenly faced with. There were ­people running in and out of the doors, carrying whatever books and papers, instruments and machines they could save from the flames, and . . .” She released a heavy sigh and met Petra's eye. “And you.”

Petra frowned. “Me?”

Matron nodded and went on, “I still hadn't moved, still hadn't done anything to help. I just stood there, watching the University burn before my eyes, and then suddenly there was a child in my arms and a young man telling me to keep her safe.” Matron's eyes fluttered and tears slid down her cheeks. “I clung to you as if my life depended on it—­this beautiful little girl with amber eyes and honey-­brown hair, a pocket watch in one hand and a screwdriver in the other. He told me your name, told me to look after you, and then ran back inside before I could stop him.” She released a heavy sigh. “Not a moment after, the whole building collapsed and went up in flame. Everyone inside died.”

“And the man?” asked Petra, her pulse racing. “Who was he?”

With a sniffle, Matron wiped the tears from her cheeks and looked up at the ceiling. “I don't know who he was. He didn't say.”

Petra stared without seeing, her mind racing with questions and possibilities. A man had rescued her from the fire, but who? Was he her father? A brother? An uncle? She blinked back tears and looked at Etta again, her chest stinging. “You never mentioned him before.”

Her lips quivered and she closed her eyes, as if suddenly pained. “There's more.”

“What do you mean?” Petra asked, her voice trembling.

“He is not the only thing I kept from you, and I think it's time you know. You're old enough and . . .” She opened her eyes and looked at Petra. “You deserve to know the truth.”

Petra inhaled a sharp breath. “The truth about what?”

Matron Etta sighed. “In the days after the fire, I tried to find your family, your parents. I know I told you that they died in the fire, but I still don't know if that is the truth.” She went on, “I searched and searched for anything I could find about who you were, where you had come from, why you were there in the University that day, but it wasn't until weeks later that I finally found someone who recognized you. Until then no one seemed to know you existed.” She shook her head and frowned. “I can't remember his name now—­he was an engineer of some kind—­but he told me that you were . . .” She trailed off, worrying at a strand of hair at the nape of her neck. “ . . . that you were Lady Chroniker's ward, her niece.”

Petra's eyes widened.

“She died in the fire, you see. So I tried contacting your mother and father, but no one knew where to find them. The Guild was in disorder, and I was told that any information they might have had on where to find them had burned up in the fire. I had nothing. All I could do was wait and hope that someone would come looking for you, but no one ever did.”

Petra stared at Matron, her heart in her throat. “Why did you never tell me?”

Etta inhaled a deep breath and sighed. “I wanted to protect you.”

“Protect me? From what?”

“Remembering,” she said, bowing her head. “You were so small when it happened. I didn't want to remind you of that pain, of all that you lost that day, and when no one came for you, I decided it would be better not to tell you the truth, that it would be better if you didn't know who you were. I worried that if you knew, you would never be happy here, that you would dwell on what could have been, always hoping for a different life—­a better life than I could give you.”

Fresh tears came to Matron's eyes and her lips trembled. “But you knew, I think, in your heart, that you didn't belong here. You always knew I wasn't your real mother.” Her voice wavered, and she cleared her throat. “I was always just Etta to you, and though I knew you weren't my daughter, I always wished—­” Her words were lost to tears, and she hid her face behind her hand, her shoulders shaking with sobs.

Petra didn't know what to say. She hesitantly leaned forward and placed her hand in Etta's, a sudden thickness in her throat as her heart wrenched with guilt.

Etta took Petra's hand and held it tight, seeming to find strength in that small comfort. She inhaled a deep, steadying breath and wiped the tears from her eyes, smiling weakly. “You will always be my daughter, Petra,” she said, patting her hand. “And I don't need you to call me Mum for me to believe it, so don't apologize for being smart enough to know the truth.” She pulled Petra up from the floor and wrapped her in a hug, kissing her on the cheek. “I love you, my sweet girl, and I hope you'll forgive me for keeping this from you. I only did what I thought was best.”

Petra felt hot tears well up in her eyes, and she let them come. “I know.”

Etta pulled back from the hug and cupped Petra's face in her hands, wiping the tears from her cheeks. “I should go,” she said, sniffling. “They'll need extra hands at the hospital, and I need to do my part.” She kissed Petra's brow and stood, glancing at Emmerich lying on the bed. “You stay here and watch over him. What he needs now is rest. As do you,” she said, smoothing Petra's hair. “Get some sleep if you can. Constance can watch the children when she gets back, and Esther until then. Send one of the boys if you need me.”

She patted Petra's cheek and then was gone, leaving Petra and Emmerich alone.

Petra sat down beside the bed and gently brushed Emmerich's hair from his face, her mind racing with thoughts of her parents, her family, trying to make sense of it all. She wondered if it was true, if she really was a Chroniker, the lady's niece.

In her heart, she was still just Petra Wade.

She looked at Emmerich, fidgeting in his sleep. “Did you know?” she asked quietly, her voice timid in the silence. He had recognized her pocket watch, seemed surprised when she did not know who had given it to her. He had shown her Lady Chroniker's portrait and known that she had lost her family in the fire. “Did you know who I was?”

She did not expect him to answer, but in the dim lantern light, she thought she saw a flicker of a smile on his lips before he drifted off into a deep, steady sleep.

W
ITH THE HELP
of the gin, Emmerich slept feverishly until the next morning. Petra stayed by his side, too anxious to sleep. She found solace in his steady breathing, the incomprehensible gibberish he muttered every once in a while, and the quiet rhythm of his snoring. The rest of the city lay silent, the engines shut down and the boilers cold, everyone mourning the deaths of those who had perished in the attack—­students and engineers and Luddites alike.

Petra had taken to holding Emmerich's hand while he slept. Feeling the warmth of his callused hands brought her comfort. She didn't care what her sisters might say.

Around midday his fever broke. His mutterings became somewhat comprehensible, though he was still delirious and Petra could only guess what he was trying to say. She cooled his forehead with a damp rag and shushed him softly. The day passed, his fever continued to abate, and his cuts showed no sign of infection.

It wasn't until late in the afternoon that Petra finally dared close her eyes, letting herself rest for the first time since she had brought him to the flat. She drifted off to the sound of Emmerich's shallow breathing.