The Brass Giant (19 page)

She closed her eyes, breathing him in. “All right,” she whispered.

Emmerich pulled her into a kiss, leaving a fire dancing on her lips as he wrapped his arms around her and held her close to his chest. She felt his heart beat against her cheek, a steady rhythm of life. She didn't want to let go. She curled her fingers into his hair, breathing in his rich, metallic scent, trying not to cry.

“It's going to be all right,” he whispered, smoothing her hair. He kissed her forehead and rested his lips there, his breath tickling her hair. When finally he stepped back, he caressed the line of her jaw with his fingers, his eyes soft. “Everything will turn out fine. I promise.”

Petra raised her hand to his and pressed it against her cheek. “I trust you.”

He focused on the curvature of her mouth as his thumb traced the edge of her lips. “Be safe, Petra Wade.” His hand dropped away from her face and he stepped back toward the door, his gaze lingering on her as if he feared he would never see her again. Too soon he reached the front door, stepped outside, and was gone.

P
ETRA SLEPT
FITFULLY,
thoughts of conspiracies and nooses circling through her dreams. She woke in the late morning, more exhausted than when she went to sleep. Someone knocked loudly on the door.

She heard Norris pad to the door and open it. “You?” he said.

Petra had nearly forgotten—­Emmerich was supposed to meet her. She combed her hair and quickly braided it over her shoulder, but when she walked into the living room, she didn't see Emmerich at the door. Instead, a tall gangly man stood outside, wearing shabby clothes and sporting a short, dirty beard—­her mysterious stalker.

Norris leaned against the doorway. “Are you sure?”

“Aye. I'd say you got five minutes, maybe ten.” The man tipped his hat. “Best be off.”

Norris cursed and eased the door shut, running both hands through his pale blond hair as he turned around. He spotted Petra standing in the doorway to the bedroom and dropped his hands to his sides, a pained look on his face.

She stepped forward. “Norris, what's going on?”

He clenched his jaw and exhaled a sharp breath. “Tolly snitched on us. The coppers know where you are.” He grabbed his coat. “Get dressed. We need to leave. Now.”

N
ORRIS PE
ERED OUT
of the alleyway and waved Petra forward. “It's clear. No bobbies, love.”

Yet.

She would give almost anything to have rain. The clouds above the city were murky, gray, and swirling, but not a drop of rain fell from the sky, not even a light sprinkle. She looked up and down the street and then turned to Norris. “Who was that man that came to the door?”

He shrugged. “Don't know for sure. No one knows his name or where he's from. He just appears and disappears, knows everything going on at any given time. Eyes and ears of the fourth quadrant, he likes to say.”

“Is he a friend of yours?” she asked.

“I wouldn't say that,” he said, checking around the next corner. “But if he was going to betray us, he already would have, if that's what you mean.”

They crept toward Medlock, sticking to the alleys and side streets, eventually coming to the alley just opposite the pawnshop. It was hard to see beyond the front glass, but the shop appeared to be empty, no bobbies or coppers lurking about. She and Norris stole across the street and slipped into the back alley behind the shop, trying to stay out of sight. She felt like a regular criminal, sneaking about, hiding from the law and passersby.

When she came to the back door, she found it locked.

Norris slipped up to the door. “Move over, love,” he said, pulling two pins out of his sleeve cuffs. He quickly dispatched the lock, and Petra turned the handle and crept inside.

Before Norris could follow, she held her hand out to stop him. “I need you to go to 119 Farringdon Crescent. Speak with Emmerich Goss—­or Kristiane, the housekeeper. Let one of them know that I'm here at the shop.”

Norris arched an eyebrow. “Is he that ‘friend' of yours?”

“Yes,” she said. “Do this for me, please.”

He sighed. “All right. But you owe me. Remember that.” He tipped his hat with a charismatic grin and turned down the alley. “See you in a bit, love.”

 

Chapter 16

T
HE BAC
K ROOM
of the pawnshop looked like it always had, littered with boxes of tickers that needed to be repaired, shelves stuffed full of documentation, and pawned items that had gone unclaimed. The shop smelled the same—­dusty and metallic. But it didn't
feel
the same. Petra once felt as if she belonged there, as if it was her home, but now she was a stranger, an intruder.

She crept toward the door that separated the back room and the main shop, where she found Mr. Stricket sitting behind the desk, humming to himself as he pored over pawn stubs and receipts. Beyond her sight, she heard the familiar sound of broom bristles scratching against the floor. He had hired someone else to do her work since her arrest. She wondered if the person had taken her place as his apprentice as well.

Petra softly cleared her throat, and Mr. Stricket started, dropping a stack of receipts to the floor.

“What is it, sir?” said his helper, a boy by the sound of his voice.

“Nothing, Colin. Finish sweeping up, if you will.”

Mr. Stricket bent down on his old creaky knees and picked up the receipts. Petra knelt next to the doorway. She would have helped him, but she didn't want to attract attention from the boy. He might not take so kindly to a criminal in the shop. As Mr. Stricket gathered the receipts and stood, he gestured for the shop boy to come up to the desk. “Colin, my boy, would you run a correspondence to post for me?”

“Of course, sir.”

The broom handle clattered against the wall, and the boy's footsteps neared the counter. Petra shrank into the shadow of a tower of boxes.

“I haven't any stamps, so you will have to purchase a set.” Mr. Stricket fished out a few shillings from his pocket. He took a parts order and slipped it into a marked envelope. “Afterward, go on and head home. You've worked enough today.”

“Thank you, Mr. Stricket.”

The boy exited the shop, the little doorbell tinkling long after the door had closed.

Mr. Stricket lowered his glasses and let them hang by the chain around his neck, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “You can come out now, my dear.”

Petra stepped out from the back room, wringing her hands. “I'm sorry to bother you,” she said. “But I don't have anywhere else to go. Is it all right if I hide out here for a bit? I'll be out of your way soon enough.”

“Of course you can stay,” he said. “But why are you here? Has something happened?”

“Tolly has gone to the police, and I couldn't stay where I was.”

Mr. Stricket clicked his tongue. “Foolish boy.” He sighed. “I heard why they arrested you. What nonsense.” He shook his head, frowning. “Well, you'll be safe here for now. The police came around a few days ago, but when there was no sign of you, they went back to their usual business. If they come looking again, I'll put them off.” He gestured toward the back room. “In fact, since you're here, I have something I need your help with, an old cuckoo clock I can't seem to fix. You have better eyes than I do, and poor Colin holds a screwdriver like he's going to kill the machine, not fix it.”

Petra followed Mr. Stricket into the back room, not feeling so misplaced anymore. She could almost believe nothing had changed, that she was merely spending another evening repairing tickers with Mr. Stricket. She would give almost anything for it to be true, to be concerned with nothing more important than fixing a clock. Now, she felt as if the future of the world was on her shoulders.

She sat down at the worktable and began repairing the clock. In minutes, she had replaced the two warped gears and reassembled the movement. As Mr. Stricket returned the box of gears and springs to the clock case, a pang of regret twisted her heart. She wished she could stay here the rest of the night and come back every night after, as she had done for so many years, just forget about the problems of the world and fix clocks for the rest of her life.

Before she agreed to help Emmerich Goss, she had been simple shop girl Petra Wade. Now, she was Petra Chroniker—­war machine builder, traitor, spy, and heiress.

Things had changed.

Mr. Stricket fastened the movement to the inside of the clock and adjusted the minute hand to the proper time. “I am grateful for the help, my dear,” he said, setting the clock aside. “These old hands don't work as well as they used to, and poor Colin just doesn't have the aptitude for it.”

“Sorry I haven't been around much lately.”

He shook his head. “No, no. Don't apologize. You've been busy.” He stood up from his chair and fetched a small box from the top shelf above the worktable. “Now, there was something else I wanted to show you while I have you here. You recall asking me about the ornamentation on the front of your pocket watch, yes?”

“Yes,” she said, her heart suddenly racing in her throat.

“I remember now where I had seen it before. The design of the letter is unique to the Chroniker family crest. It's been so long since I last saw it, I'd nearly forgotten,” he said, holding the box atop his palm. “It's interesting that you would have a pocket watch of the same design.”

Petra gravitated toward the tiny ring box. “May I?”

“Of course.”

She took the box into her hand and flipped the hinged lid back with a crisp pop. Within gleamed a familiar ring, the same ring her mother had been wearing the day she died. It was a man's ring, thick-­banded and clunky, and yet it had looked so elegant on her mother's fingers.

She removed the ring from its box with trembling fingers and lifted it into the light, noticing hairline cracks in the gold plating, too uniform to be from wear. Where a stone should have been, the ring was ornamented with a two-­headed raven, its wings at rest and an elaborate
C
engraved into a shield across its chest. A torch rose behind the bird, the flame a marquise garnet, and in place of the raven's eyes gleamed tiny diamonds.

Encircling the raven were the words: mit meinen geist erstelle ich das unmögliche.

“It's German,” said Mr. Stricket, flipping the magnifying lenses over his spectacles. He leaned over her shoulder and pointed to the words engraved into the gold. “ ‘With my mind, I create the impossible'—­the Chroniker family motto. This here is an heirloom of our founders, and it should have passed on to the next Chroniker after the lady, but instead it ended up here. I've kept it all this time. Never tried to sell it,” he said wistfully. “Something like this is too precious to put a price on, a true artifact of this city's history.”

To Petra, it was worth more than anything else in the world, the last piece of her mother's legacy. She cautiously took the ring and slid it onto her right middle finger, the same place where her mother had worn it, but the band was much too large. The ring banged against her knuckle.

Disappointed, she moved to slide it off her finger and return it to the velvet-­lined box, but as she touched the sides of the band, the raven's wings twitched. The feathers ruffled, and in tiny increments the wings rose into a position of full flight, the band slowly tightening around Petra's finger. She raised the ring to her ear, and sure enough, she heard the brassy ticking of a clockwork movement inside. In just a matter of seconds, the ring fit perfectly around her finger. Then the raven's wings returned to their original position, and the ticking within stopped.

She couldn't help but grin, a swell of familial pride rising within her.

If only she hadn't lost the pocket watch and the screwdriver to the Guild. She wanted to hold onto the ring, to keep it, but she couldn't take it from Mr. Stricket, not without telling him the truth. At least she could take comfort in the fact that Mr. Stricket would keep the ring safe. Because of him, some small part of her mother, of her family's legacy, still survived.

“And if I'm not mistaken . . .” continued Mr. Stricket, examining the ring through the many magnifying glasses over his spectacles. “The
C
upon your watch is identical to this ornamentation, is it not? Shall we have a look to compare?”

Petra's heart sank. “I—­I don't have it with me,” she said. “The Guild—­when I was arrested, they took my things, including the watch.”

“I see,” he said, adjusting his glasses. “Fascinating, isn't it? That you would have a watch with the Chroniker family crest. Are you sure you don't know how you came by it?”

She glanced at him, her mentor and greatest supporter. She could tell him the truth. He might even believe her. “Well,” she said, her heartbeat quickening. “About that . . . I—­”

There came a knock on the alley door, and Mr. Stricket hurriedly gestured her into the workroom and closed the door behind her, concealing her from view. Petra held her breath and waited, listening as Mr. Stricket crossed the back room and opened the door to the alley.

“Can I help you?”

“Are you Mr. Stricket?” asked a familiar voice.

Petra relaxed against the door, exhaling a relieved sigh.

“That would be me, yes,” answered Mr. Stricket.

“I don't know if you know of me, sir, but I'm Emmerich Goss, a friend of Petra's—­of Miss Wade's. I've come to take her somewhere safe. I wasn't followed.”

Petra cracked open the workroom door to find Emmerich standing in the doorway. He smiled when he saw her. “It's all right, Mr. Stricket,” she said. “He's a friend.”

“I suppose I do recall seeing him hanging about the shop some weeks ago,” he said, a smile lifting his lips. “Always disappeared at the end of your shift.”

Petra blushed.

“I am sorry that we haven't yet had the pleasure of meeting, sir,” said Emmerich. “It is an honor to meet the man who taught such a fine engineer.”

It was Mr. Stricket's turn to redden. “She has an innate talent for it. I merely gave her the opportunity to learn.”

“All the same,” said Emmerich. “You did her a great justice teaching her mechanics despite the fact she is a girl.”

“Yes, well I never bought into the idea that women couldn't be engineers. Our late Lady Chroniker was one of the best, was she not?”

“Indeed, sir.”

“Emmerich,” said Petra. “Where's Norris?”

His smile evaporated. “He went home to detain any policemen lurking about. We should leave here as soon as possible.”

“Where will we go?”

“I have an idea.”

They bid their farewells to Mr. Stricket, who hugged Petra before letting them out the back door. He placed a light, whiskery kiss on her cheek and turned to Emmerich. “Take care of her, my boy,” he said, shaking his hand.

“I will, sir.”

Mr. Stricket turned to Petra. “And you, my dear, promise you'll stay out of trouble.”

“I'll do my best.” She waved goodbye as Emmerich led her down the alleyway.

Around the corner, she glanced down at her hand and realized she still wore her mother's ring. She paused, releasing Emmerich's hand.

“What is it?” he asked, skidding to a stop in front of her.

“The ring. It's not—­” It wasn't hers, she was going to say, but the lie fell quiet on her lips. She turned back toward the pawnshop. “I need to take it back.”

Emmerich grabbed her by the hand and dragged her on. “We don't have time.”

Hand in hand they wove through the city's lattice of streets and alleys. When they came to the second quadrant, they found Delaney Road crowded with finely dressed ­people carrying opera glasses and lorgnettes. Hawkers circled the crowd's perimeter, shouting show times and ticket prices for the upcoming theater performances.

Petra caught only a glimpse of the flashing electric lights above the theater's entrance before Emmerich pulled her into the next alley, delving deeper into the second quadrant.

“You should have come to stay with me in the first place,” he said, stopping in the middle of an alley.

He drew Petra into a tight hug, and she breathed in the dusty tweed scent of his coat and the metallic warmth of his skin. Abruptly, he broke the embrace and slid his hands into her hair, pulling her into a ravenous kiss, an insatiable hunger in his lips. When their lips parted, he smiled, brushing stray hairs from her face.

“What was that for?” she asked.

“I don't know when I'll be able to do so again.” He kissed her a second time, a delicate touch of their lips, and a third time on her nose. “Come on. We should get you inside.”

Emmerich led her to a whitewashed building and down a narrow set of stairs leading to a door hidden below the street. He knocked twice, and a young girl answered, fair-­skinned and dark-­haired, her eyes the same blue as the sky. Her cheeks flushed when she saw who was at the door.

“Master Emmerich,” she breathed. “I didn't know you'd be coming down for a visit.” She fidgeted with her hair. “Would you like to come in for some tea?”

“Thank you, Josephine.”

Josephine led them into a dark, narrow hall, depositing them in a small, windowless sitting room while she fetched the tea. Emmerich sat down in one of two chairs and fiddled with the lid of a candy dish while they waited. Petra sat in the chair next to him and examined the room, sparse on decorations—­assorted picture frames in varying shapes scattered along the walls, all in shades of blue and displaying a dried, pressed flower.

“Where are we?” she asked.

“This is the servant's hall beneath my house,” said Emmerich.

Petra frowned. “What are we doing here?”

“If we are to make plans to bring down the Guild, we need a way to communicate on a regular basis without arousing suspicion. If you enter my family's employ as a maid, we are guaranteed daily contact.”

“You want me to work as a maid?”

“Only for a short time.”

Josephine returned to the sitting room with a teapot, three cups, and half a dozen biscuits, which she sat on the table between the two chairs. “It's been a while since you've visited, Master Emmerich. Haven't seen much of you upstairs either, not for some months.”