The Brass Giant (13 page)

She dreamt of fire.

Wallpaper curled away from blazing walls. Books and schematics burned to dust. A lone hand clawed through collapsed rafters, stretching to grab hold of something, someone. Tears sizzled on the polished brass floor. Her tears. A polished wooden screwdriver handle, a gilded pocket watch. Both gleamed in the firelight, held amidst the blaze by trembling hands. Tears ran in tendrils beneath dark amber eyes. Words burned away in the roaring fire. Strong arms. Warm arms. The smell of oil and metal polish.

Petra startled awake to someone stroking her face. She opened her eyes, blinking away the sleepiness of two days without rest. The lantern held only a glimmer of light at the tip of the wick, a smidge above the burner. In the dim orange light she saw Emmerich resting on his side, his right arm tucked beneath his head and his left stretched across the bed, caressing her cheek. She had fallen asleep with her head leaning against the mattress.

“You are beautiful when you sleep,” he said, his voice hoarse and smelling of gin.

All the anxiety and sleepless dread that had tormented her since the day outside the University washed away, the terrible nightmare forgotten. Emmerich was alive. He was here with her now, and that was all that mattered.

He propped himself on his elbow and winced. Petra started forward to help him, but he eased her nerves with a stroke of his fingers along the outside of her cheek. She leaned into his hand, thankful that he was all right.

In the dim lantern light, she followed the smooth curvature of his muscles with her eyes, wishing to run her fingers across his shoulders and chest, to feel the heat beneath his skin. Warmth flooded her cheeks at her own shamelessness, but she didn't care. She reveled in his touch as he gently brushed her hair from her forehead with his fingers, cool against her flushed skin.

“Is this a dream?” he asked, a crooked grin on his face. “If it is, I never want to wake.”

She stared at his lips. How badly she wished to kiss that smile, to put her lips to his. How badly she wished it were a dream, that she could curl up in his arms and forever stare into his eyes. But it was not a dream, and she could not act on her desires, as much as she wanted to. She pulled away, resisting the urge to brush her fingers through his hair one last time.

If Emmerich noticed the desire in her thoughts or the regret with which she drew away, he did not say. He shifted his arm and nestled his head into the pillow with a faint smile, regarding her drowsily. “You should get some sleep, Petra.”

She would rather stay with him, but she climbed to her feet, feeling the exhaustion of sleeplessness catching up with her. She yawned. “Good night, Emmerich.”

Sleepily, she started toward the door, but before she could step away, he clasped her hand, entwining his fingers through hers. Her breath trapped itself in her throat, and her skin tingled at his touch. He pulled her toward the bed, bringing her fingers to his lips, and her heart stopped beating. It seemed an eternity, his lips pressed against her skin, and she felt dizzy and warm, shamelessly wishing it was her lips he was kissing.

“Good night, Petra,” he said quietly, releasing her hand. “Sleep well.”

 

Chapter 10

P
ETRA SAT IN
the middle of a large room playing with a mechanized toy train. Desks, stacks of gears, and bustling machinery surrounded her. Men towered over her, poring over designs and parts order forms, paying little mind to her as she wound her toy train and let it clatter across the workshop floor, following it on bare feet.

The toy train crashed into a desk leg, and a great blast shook the workshop. Ticker parts fell from their shelves, clinking and clanking against the hard floor. Dust fell from the ceiling, peppering her hair. The men shouted over the hiss of busted steam pipes, unaware of a girl hiding beneath a worktable. A second explosion rattled the workshop, and a cloud of fire blasted through the entrance.

Books and papers erupted into flame, feeding ashes into the air. Desks blazed. Flames licked the support beams and reached for the ceiling rafters. Men tried extinguishing the fires, but the flames reached the gaslamp lines too quickly. All around the workshop the paneling exploded, replaced with walls of fire, fed by the gas reservoirs below the city.

Petra heard her name called. A woman, dressed finely but disheveled, hurried around the flaming workshop, dodging the burning timbers falling from the ceiling, pushing fallen desks and tables out of her path. The central rafter creaked above her, and part of the ceiling collapsed on the workshop, obscuring the woman from view.

Petra ran from her hiding place, bare feet slapping against the hot, ash-­littered floor, burning her toes. Men yelled and rushed past her, some injured. She wandered to the mass of banisters and support beams that had crushed the center of the workshop. Fire leaped across the fallen rafters, reaching for the toppled desks and tables, slowly spreading throughout the workshop.

She heard crying from under the smoldering beams and tiptoed forward, the heat of the fire singeing her cheeks. “Mummy?”

There was a gasp, and a burning beam shifted off the pile, pushed out of the way by a heeled boot. Her mother's face looked out from within the flames, tears streaking her eyes. “Petra, darling. You're alive,” she breathed.

A large desk remained yet untouched beneath the burning timbers, sheltering Petra's mother from the flames, but fire blazed all around, eating away at the fallen rafters, licking the sides of the desk. Her mother's hand stretched out of the wreckage, reaching for her, but the fire wreathed her arm, and she snatched it back into the safety of the desk.

“Stand back, Petra.”

Her mother kicked at the blazing timbers blocking her in, but as she moved the burning boards, the pyre shifted, raining cinders and coals and kindling onto the floor. She managed to move the fiery wreckage just enough to slip her arm through unharmed.

“Darling, come here.” Her sleeve smoked from the heat, her lace cuffs charred and hands reddened with burns. She wore a gold ring on her middle finger—­a great clunky thing that glinted in the firelight.

Petra moved closer and touched the shaking hand, and her mother gripped her fingers.

“I need you to be brave now,” she said, her voice trembling. “You must get to safety.” She let go of her hand and placed a screwdriver and pocket watch into Petra's jumper pocket. “I need you to go outside, sweetheart. Go to the square, to the café, the one with the apple pastries you love so much.” The fire spread across the ceiling, and the timbers creaked and groaned. Her mother closed her eyes and tears slid down her cheeks. “Can you do that for Mommy?”

A man shouted over the roar of the fire, bellowing their names. “Adelaide! Petra!”

Her mother's eyes widened. “Friedrich . . .” She inhaled a deep breath and shouted his name. “We're here!” She then reached forward and grabbed Petra's hand. “Go find Friedrich,” she said quickly. “And go to the café. I'll meet you there, at our favorite table.” She forced a smile. “But you need to go now, darling.”

A man stumbled toward them, coughing into his sleeve. “Addy!”

“Friedrich, get her out of here.”

His strong arms wrapped around Petra, lifting her away from the fire. She cried, tears streaming down her cheeks as she gripped her mother's shaking hand, not wanting to let go.

“Addy,” he said, his voice strained, “I can—­”

“Go,” said her mother, letting go of Petra's hand. “Go! Take care of her, Friedrich. Keep her safe.”

Another beam fell from the ceiling, dragging paneling and shingles down from above. The fire whooshed upward, smoke and heat reaching for the fresh air. A blazing rafter fell in front of the desk, obscuring the woman's face with cinders and smoke.

“I love you, darling,” she said, her voice choked by ash and tears. “Just remember Mommy loves you.”

Friedrich pulled Petra away, wrapping her in the warmth of his jacket. She struggled against him, trying to escape his arms, trying to reach for her mother's hand, but he held her tight, hugging her close. “I'll come back for you, Addy.”

“Go,” she whispered, her voice barely heard over the roaring flames.

With one final glance at the fire, he tightened his hold on Petra and ran.

P
ETRA AWOKE TO
darkness.

The room was cold, empty. Though surrounded by her family, all her siblings sleeping nearby, she had never felt so alone.

She stared at the ceiling as the memory of the fire burned across her thoughts. Whatever Matron Etta had been told, Petra was not the niece of Lady Chroniker, the most brilliant woman that engineering had ever known.

She was her
daughter
.

She sat up, running her hands through her rumpled hair, her exhaustion forgotten. How could she have forgotten that? How could she forget the last moments of her own mother's life? The scene was as vivid as if it had only just happened, wrestled out of some dark part of her memory, long forgotten until now. She had been inside the University that day, carried from the flames and her mother by a man named Friedrich, the one who must have given her to Etta Wade and changed the course of her life.

She kneaded her forehead, replaying the memory over and over in her head. Why didn't he try to save her mother too? And afterward, why didn't he stay with her and keep his promise to look after her? How different would her life be if her mother had survived, if Friedrich had disobeyed her request and dragged her out of the fire, if the ceiling hadn't collapsed and buried them both in the rubble? A moment more, and he could have saved them both.

Petra stood up from her bed, stretching her arms overhead with a yawn. The gray light through the kitchen window told her the sun had not yet risen. She had no desire to sleep, her mind buzzing with the realization of who she was and what it might mean. She strode across the living room and tapped on the bedroom door, careful not to wake one of the younger boys who slept nearby.

She cracked the door open. “You awake?”

“Petra?”

She sidled into the room, carefully shutting the door so the latch wouldn't click. She fumbled for the matches on the table at the foot of the bed, struck one, and lit the lantern. The lamp cast an orange glow across the room, revealing Emmerich sitting up on the bed.

“Did I wake you?” she asked.

He shook his head.

She sat down on the mattress, folding her knees against her chest. She hadn't thought of what to say to him, only that she needed to talk. While she sat, she realized how utterly improper it was to be sitting on a bed with a boy, wearing nothing more than her nightshift. She had forgotten how it felt to be so near him, the memory of their embrace in the subcity suddenly coming to mind. How she wished for him to hold her like that again. After being away from him for so long, she wanted to feel his arms around her, to assure herself that he really was here, that they really were together again.

“Is something the matter?” he asked, gingerly leaning against the wall behind the bed. If he was bothered by her presence on the mattress, he didn't show it.

Petra sucked in a deep breath. She might as well come out and say it. No point in masking the truth. “I think . . .” She swallowed the ache in her throat. “I think I'm Lady Chroniker's daughter.” An awkward silence followed her words, and she felt the focus of his gaze upon her. When she finally dared to look up at him, he was smiling. Her heart fluttered to see him smile again. “You knew, didn't you?”

“I hoped.”

“But
how
? How did
you
know when I didn't?”

He shifted against the wall and regarded her carefully. “I remembered you.”

“What?”

“We used to play together, when my uncle would visit your mother. And when I saw you again outside the shop, some part of me recognized your face, your eyes, the color of your hair. You look very much like your mother, you know—­what I remember of her.” He smiled. “When I saw you that day, I felt as if I knew you, as if I had seen you before, but it didn't really connect until later—­which was why I came back and asked for your help.” He shifted on the bed. “I couldn't know for sure, until I spent more time with you, but the way you are with machines, the fact that you had your mother's pocket watch . . . You couldn't be anyone else.”

Petra frowned. “I didn't remember you,” she said quietly. “I didn't realize.”

“I didn't expect you to. I may have hoped, but you were so young when the fire happened, only four years old. It's a wonder you remember anything at all.” He regarded her with a slight frown. “How did you come to realize the truth?”

“I remembered the day of the fire, the day she died.” She exhaled a heavy sigh. “Maybe the fire yesterday, the attack on the University, triggered the memory; I don't know.”

“Petra . . .” He moved forward and clasped her hand, his warmth soaking into her skin and warming her to the core. “I'm sorry.”

She shook her head. “I just—­How could I forget? How could I not know who I really was?” Her heartbeat quickened. “All this time, I was a Chroniker, the daughter of the greatest scientist of our age, and I didn't know.”

A short silence followed, and Emmerich gently rubbed her hand. “You can't blame yourself for not knowing, for not remembering,” he said. “No one knew the truth of who you were, even when your mother was alive. Everyone thought that you were her niece, fostered to become her protégé, but my uncle and I knew the truth—­you were her daughter, a daughter she could not admit to have, and so she lied.” He squeezed her hand. “But you
are
her daughter. You are her heir.”

Petra blinked, realizing the truth of those words. She was the heir to the greatest family of engineers the world had ever known. She was heir to their legacy, heir to the city itself. And yet she felt no different than before; she was still just Petra Wade—­shop girl and clockwork engineer. She didn't know how to be a Chroniker, what she was supposed to do now that she knew the truth, whether anyone would believe her. She chewed on her lip. “What now?”

Emmerich shrugged. “I suppose that is up to you.”

She exhaled a frustrated sigh. “Why didn't you just tell me? Why didn't you say anything?”

“Would you have believed me?” he asked.

Petra frowned. He had a point.

“It wasn't my place to say,” he said, gently stroking the back of her hand with his thumb. “You needed to remember on your own, to figure it out for yourself. It was the only way to be certain of who you really were.”

“What if I never remembered?”

He looked at her more seriously then. “But you did.”

Petra shook her head and pulled her hand away. “But I don't
feel
any different than before. I'm still just . . . me.”

“That's because you are still the same person, Petra. Just because you know you are a Chroniker does not mean you have to change who you are. Not for me. Not for anyone. The only person you need to be is
you
.” Leaning forward, he lifted his hand to her face and brushed her untidy hair from her eyes, grazing her cheek with his coarse fingertips. He cupped her face in his hands and lightly traced the outline of her lower lip with his thumb. “Just Petra.”

“Emmerich,” she whispered, sighing at his touch. It had been so long since he last touched her so intimately, caught in the rhythm of the subcity machineries, the thrum of engines and hearts beating together as one. She closed her eyes, skin tingling as the gentle caress of her lips raised a shiver through her body.

“I don't want you to think this changes anything,” he said quietly. “About us.”

Petra opened her eyes, her heart seizing in her throat. “What do you mean?”

His hand slipped from her face, and a frown wrinkled his brow as he carefully tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, focusing his gaze away from her eyes. An awkward silence filled the room, precious moments of closeness ticking away as he still did not speak.

Filled with a need to remain close to him, to touch him, Petra shamelessly grabbed his hand, thrilled by her own daring. He glanced down at their joined hands, a crooked smile lifting his lips. Never had she touched
him
—­always, it had been
his
boldness,
his
impulses that had brought them together in intimate closeness, never hers, as much as she had wanted to return his advances.

Yet even as she held his hand in hers, uncertainty filled her heart, her thoughts ringing with echoes of his voice, echoes of
us
, wondering what he meant, what words he dared not say. In that silence, her pulse quickened, the truth of what she
wanted
him to say resounding over and over in her head. How desperately she wanted to admit to him what she felt, to hear him say the same, to admit the attraction between them, the romance. Whether or not it was love, she couldn't guess, but it felt . . .
right
. With him, she felt she belonged. And she wondered if he felt the same.