The Brass Giant (21 page)

“He died in the fire, didn't he?”

Emmerich nodded. “There is a memorial plaque dedicated to him in the portrait hall I showed you. He was never renowned enough to warrant a portrait of his own, but his name is there: Friedrich Goss, Clockwork Engineer.”

Friedrich . . .
Why did the name sound so familiar?

“I hope someday I can be as great as he was, though I do not think either of us could ever manage to surpass your natural ability. If he were still alive, he would like you, admire you.” He paused. “I cannot help but think how different my life—­how different
our
lives—­might be if that fire had never happened.”

Then she remembered.
Friedrich
—­the name on her mother's lips, the man who had carried her from the University, the man who had gone back inside to save her mother. Her throat constricted and she gasped, a sudden ache weighing on her chest.

“Emmerich . . .” she said, her eyes burning with unshed tears. “I didn't realize.”

He closed the distance between them and raised a hand to her face. “Petra?”

“Your uncle—­I remember him,” she said, her heart thudding heavily in her chest. “The day of the fire . . . He went back for her after he took me to safety. He died trying to save her, trying to save my mother.” She shook her head, feeling her breath seize up in her chest. “I'm sorry. I didn't know until now.”

He shushed her. “You don't have to apologize. It's not your fault.”

She quieted, finding comfort in his arms. “I know,” she said quietly. “I just—­Emmerich, he saved my life. If it wasn't for him . . .” She trailed off, realizing what he had done, what her mother had done. Both of them sacrificed themselves for her, a mere child.

“Thank you,” said Emmerich.

“For what?” she whispered.

“For telling me this. It—­” He hesitated, a wavering smile on his lips. “I have always honored my uncle's memory, but now, knowing what he did, I am more grateful to him than ever before. Don't let the manner of his death upset you, Petra,” he said, stroking her cheek. “He was loyal to your mother, to the very end.”

She let herself smile at that. “I wonder if they ever thought we would be standing here, together, if . . .” She let the thought fade into silence, a flush coming to her cheeks as she wondered if her mother had ever thought of her one day falling for the nephew of her dearest friend. If things had been different, had the fire never happened, perhaps they would have courted and married, much to the pleasure of their respective families. But this was not that life. The fire had happened. Emmerich's uncle had died, as had her mother, and there was nothing either of them could do to change that.

And yet they had found each other again. There was hope in that, wasn't there?

Petra buried her face into his chest and tucked her fingers beneath his shirt, touching his bare skin. “Emmerich,” she whispered, her heartbeat quickening as she dared open her heart to him, as she felt his pulse beneath her fingertips, the warmth of his bare skin. “Do you think that you and I could be together? Do you think that this could work between us?”

Emmerich gently drew away, searching her eyes. “Petra—­”

“I only mean that—­” She pressed her lips together and glanced away, doubt creeping into her heart. “I feel I have nothing to offer you. I am a wanted criminal, a lower-­class, uneducated shop girl. You deserve better than me.”

“Petra,” he said softly, “you have
everything
to offer me.”

Emmerich pressed her face into his chest again, his strong arms wrapped tightly around her. She wanted to believe it was possible—­a future with Emmerich Goss, a future she had never before considered—­and yet it seemed as ridiculous as their plan to unseat the Guild, no more than a fanciful dream.

Her chest tightened and she blinked back sudden tears. “I want to,” she whispered, her voice muffled by his shirt. “I want to be everything that you want, everything that you need in a . . . partner, but I—­”

“Petra, you stupid girl.”

He drew her into him and kissed her—­a kiss full of yearning and unspoken emotion—­and in that moment she felt the love he had for her, so aptly conveyed in the joining of their lips, so true and real, more real than anything else in the world. If she knew anything at all, it was that Emmerich Goss loved her. She returned the kiss, feeding him the same desire, the same expression of raw love.

When their lips parted, he rested his forehead against hers, the tips of their noses touching.

She inhaled his vivifying breath, acutely aware of his fingertips caressing her lips and the feathery touch of his hair on her brow. She slid her hands beneath his shirt, feeling the heat of his body. His heartbeat hammered against her fingers.

“Petra, I love you.”

Her breath caught in her throat, and she drew away with the echo of his words in her ears, her heart pounding against her ribs. She searched his eyes, burning with sincerity. She had dreamed of those words on his lips for so long, his admittance of love, more powerful than any kiss or gesture, and his voice gave the words such weight, such importance, that three words never sounded so beautiful, so natural.

“Emmerich . . .”

“I do,” he said, drawing her close, his hands comfortably around her waist. “I love you,” he breathed, pulling her into another kiss.

She surrendered herself to him, slipping her arms around his neck as he pulled her tighter against him, all worries forgotten. In that moment, everything in the world was perfect.

When he pulled away, Petra followed, not yet wanting to part.

Emmerich moistened his lips, regarding her with his blazing copper eyes. “I suppose I should do this properly,” he said, his voice trembling slightly. He took her hands into his and inhaled a slow, deep breath. “Petra, I know it must seem forward of me, but you must know—­I love you with every fiber of my being, and I cannot dream of a future without you at my side.”

Her heart raced faster, the sound of his words strange but perfect. “Emmerich—­”

“I know that it seems hasty and maybe even foolish, but I don't care.” He smiled, his cheek dimpling. “My darling Petra . . . would you one day do me the honor of waking each morning to your beautiful face, to the smell of your hair and the feel of your skin and the sound of your voice? Will you do me the pleasure of one day becoming my lifelong companion, my love, my wife, until death do us part?”

Petra's lips quivered into a smile and she felt her breath fall short, her heart unable to do any more than stutter. “You're serious?”

“I have never meant anything more.”

She stared into his eyes, a hurricane of doubt and uncertainty warring against her desire to say yes, to believe that such a future existed for them.

As if he read her mind, Emmerich squeezed her hands and pressed her fingers hard against his chest. “I know it will be difficult, that we will have to fight for it, that it will be us against the world, but for you, I would weather any storm, any obstacle that stood between us.”

A sudden melancholy stole over her, the reality of the world cutting through her chest. “But your family, the Guild . . . I—­”

“To hell with them. To hell with the world. I would do everything in my power to be with you—­whatever you want, whatever it takes.” He lifted his hand to her face. “I don't care about them. I don't care about what anyone says or thinks. All I care about is
you
.”

She chewed on her lip, hardly able to breathe in his presence. “Emmerich—­”

“Petra, do you love me?” he asked, searching her eyes, his hands gentle on her face.

Her heart stuttered. “Yes.”

“Say it,” he said, his voice soft. “Say that you love me.”

With a shuddering breath, she looked deep into his eyes, blazing with a fiery passion. Yes, she loved him—­truly, unendingly, passionately—­for what felt like both an eternity and a fraction of a second at the same time. She loved him with all her heart and wanted nothing more than to share the rest of her life with him, but her want did not change their circumstances. So much stood in their way—­the Guild, his family, her lack of money . . . a war.

How could she hope to have a future with him? How could he
expect
it?

She feared that whatever existed between them, their romance could not last, that it would not stand against the test of battles they would surely face together. She wanted it to last—­desperately—­but something deep within her heart told her that one day she would be without him, whether by choice or by circumstance. Her heart would break, and she would be left far worse off than before she had met Emmerich Goss.

She bowed her head, feeling the burn of tears in her eyes, her throat constricting.

Emmerich backed away a step, lifting his hand to her face, his touch gentle against her cheek. “Petra, if I was wrong . . .” He paused, withdrawing his hand into a fist. “I'm sorry, I—­I shouldn't have said anything, not now when our future seems so dire. I cannot expect you to—­”

She threw her arms around him and pressed her face into his neck. “Of course I love you,” she breathed. “You unforgivably romantic ninny.” If she could, she would never let go.

He released a heavy sigh, nuzzling her hair. “I just—­I wanted you to know how I felt, to know my intentions, however far off that future may be.”

“I know,” she whispered. She squeezed her eyes shut, tears sliding down her cheek. “I just want to have this moment with you—­here and now.” She swallowed hard. “I couldn't bear to hope and then have it all taken away from me.”

They stood in silence, arms wrapped tightly around one another, neither of them daring to be the first to let go. Petra could have stood in his arms an eternity and never wanted anything else, content just feeling his heart pulse in rhythm with hers.

“Can you forgive me?” she asked.

He hugged her tightly to his chest. “There is nothing to forgive.”

Petra closed her eyes, listening to Emmerich's steady beating heart. So many obstacles stood in their way. They had a government to destroy, an automaton army to stop, and a world to save. Maybe when they accomplished all of that, she could consider his proposal. Perhaps she could even accept it.

 

Chapter 18

P
ETRA
AND
E
MMERICH
spent most of the afternoon in Emmerich's study, laying out their plans for eradicating all traces of the automaton designs and gathering evidence against the conspiring Guild members in order to clear Petra's name. Already, Emmerich had discovered reason to believe that at the heart of the conspiracy were Vice-­Chancellor Lyndon, his father, and Mr. Fowler—­the man who confronted them the day they completed the automaton and called for Petra's execution at the trial.

She mulled over a hand-­drawn map of the University floors, eyeing the Guild offices. “You do understand that if we succeed, your father could be tried for treason in the Royal Court?”

Emmerich shuffled through a stack of letters and notes written on Guild stationary. “He understood the risks when he chose to conspire against the Guild and the Empire.”

“But he's your father.”

“And?” Emmerich dropped the pages onto the desk and stared at her. “Because of him, you could have died. He's the one who insisted you were the spy, went right along with Vice-­Chancellor Lyndon's plan to lay the blame on you, not caring you were innocent of the charges. Why should we show him mercy? He didn't show you any.”

He slumped in his chair, kneading his forehead with his knuckles as he went back to the assortment of handwritten letters, hastily scrawled notes, and intermittent telegrams, searching for whatever evidence he could find against his father and the others.

“Why do you hate him so much?”

Emmerich glanced up at her. “I don't
hate
him, I just—­” He sucked in a deep breath and sighed. “I merely wish to bring those who would conspire against the Guild to justice. If my father is among them—­as I suspect—­then he deserves to be punished, don't you think?”

“He is still your family.”

“Well he never acted like it,” he grumbled, curling his fingers around a piece of paper and balling it up in his fist. “He never respected me as an engineer—­as a son. I was always a disappointment to him. I still am.”

“But you're a Guild engineer—­a
brilliant
engineer. How could he be disappointed in you? You designed a marvelous piece of technology, one that could revolutionize the world. Any father would be proud.”

Emmerich scoffed. “Not
my
father. You don't understand, Petra. Everything I have, everything I am, was purchased by my father—­my education, my advancement into the Guild, the funding for my projects, my entire career laid out in front of me. For so long, I wanted to believe that I earned it, that my years of study and deliberation, my talent, my skill, led me to this point. But it didn't. My father's pocketbook did. No matter how good I am, my father will always see me as a product of his own making, a puppet to do his bidding, nothing more than an investment.” He sighed heavily and leaned back in his chair. “And the further I stray from him, the more he tries to control me. The automaton's wireless control apparatus was
mine
, and he handed it over to the Guild under the guise of advancing my career, when all he really wanted was the means to control an army of automatons. Don't you see? It would not surprise me if he was the one who orchestrated it all.”

“But why?” she asked. “Why would your father want such a thing? Why would anyone?”

Emmerich stared at the mix of letters and notes spread across his desk, rubbing his brow. “That's what I'm trying to figure out. War for the sake of war lacks true purpose.” He tapped his pencil against the table. “What we need to figure out is how the Guild benefits from a war between Great Britain and anti-­imperialist forces. If we can find the motive behind the war, we will be better able to find the evidence to pin this gross machination on the conspirators and prove your innocence.”

Petra frowned at him, his gaze fixed on a scrap of paper, pencil held aloft. He was determined to see this through, determined to destroy the automaton designs and reveal the treachery within the Guild council, but she wasn't certain they could succeed—­not with just the two of them working to uncover the conspiracy, and not before it was too late and the war began. It would take a miracle.

There came a knock at the door a quarter past five. Emmerich answered, rubbing his eyes after staring at nothing but letters and maps for the past several hours.

“I said I did not want to be bothered, Kristiane.”

“I know, sir, but your father sent word from the University.” She passed him a folded letter, which he tucked away. “Also, we have dinner ready for you if you would like to come down to the dining room.”

“Thank you, Kristiane.” He closed the door and returned to his desk. Pulling the letter from his pocket, he scanned the contents, then dropped it onto the desktop and ran both hands through his hair, a smile slowly lifting his lips.

“What is it?” she asked.

He gestured to the letter, and Petra picked it up.

Emmerich,

I require your presence in the University council chambers to participate in an imperative discussion of the events to come. By my request, Vice-­Chancellor Lyndon has agreed to offer you this opportunity to prove yourself to the council and secure yourself a position within the upper ranks of the Guild offices. This is a chance for you to be a part of a new world order, to have a hand in the future. Our goal is to change the world, son, and I want you to understand what it is we are doing.

The meeting is at six o'clock.

There was no signature, only a fine line scratched across the bottom of the message.

Petra looked up from the letter. “Are you going?

“We need to gather more information. What better place to do so than at a council meeting? This might be our chance to expose the conspirators, to clear your name. If I can direct conversation toward the planning of the conspiracy, I might be able to goad the collaborators into revealing their treachery from their own lips.”

It was a stretch, but not entirely impossible. Petra wished she could go with him, but as a wanted criminal, tried by the very ­people attending the meeting, she was stuck in the house. Emmerich would have to fill her in on the details when he returned.

“What should I do while you're away?” she asked.

He took his coat from the coat stand next to the door. “You could look over these letters again, try to find some connection I missed—­or you could take the evening off. We've been hard at work all afternoon. It wouldn't hurt for you to take a break. You are welcome to stay in my chambers while I'm gone, if you wish, but you should go down and have dinner first.” He smiled and offered his hand. “Come, I'll escort you down.”

T
HE ATMOSPHERE IN
the kitchen was an escape from the silence in the rest of the house. Harriet, Josie, Biddy, and Kristiane sat around the table, laughing and chatting over a spread of food, waiting for Petra to arrive. When she entered, they ceased their talking.

Petra swallowed, trying to think of some excuse for being absent most of the day. “Sorry, I—­I was busy this afternoon, cleaning—­”

“It's all right, goose,” said Harriet, patting the chair next to her. “We don't blame you for disappearing for a bit, especially on your first day. It can be a bit overwhelming at first. Sometimes, you need a breather.”

Petra sat down next to Harriet and surveyed the table. Biddy had outdone herself.

The shepherd's pie was deliciously hot, still steaming on her plate. Petra cut into the crispy, mashed potato crust and savored the meaty filling. If she and Emmerich ever did manage to marry and have a house of their own, they would most certainly steal Biddy to come cook for them, even if she was the only servant they could afford. Her cooking was divine.

After they all finished eating, they cleaned up, and once the dishes were put away and the leftover food stored in the ice box, Harriet bid the girls a good evening and left to visit her sister. Then Josie went off to visit a friend and Biddy retired to her room with a book, leaving Kristiane and Petra alone in the kitchen.

The housekeeper kept her eyes on the door, listening as the girls' footsteps faded down the hall, then turned to Petra, smoothing the front of her dress. “I'm afraid that I must leave you as well, Miss Wade, but since you cannot leave the house in your current situation, if you would like me to deliver a message to someone—­your family, perhaps—­I would be happy to oblige.”

The only person Petra really cared to talk to was at the University, hopefully gathering enough evidence to clear her name, but she supposed Matron Etta would like to hear from her, and Solomon too. She could at least let them know that she was safe. “Yes, thank you. If I gave you an address, do you think you could find my guardian, let her know that I'm all right?”

“Certainly.”

Petra penned the address on a bit of paper and made sure that Kristiane understood exactly where the building was in relation to the main thoroughfare. Beyond the main streets, the fourth quadrant was a maze of dead ends and left turns, all the buildings the same except for the numbers printed above the doors—­and those were in no right order or sense. Kristiane slipped the note into her pocket and bid Petra farewell, leaving her alone in the overwhelming quiet of the house—­except for Biddy, who was downstairs in her room.

Petra was certain she had never known such utter silence. At home, with Matron Etta and her countless siblings, there was never a quiet moment. There, she had always wished for solitude, but now, standing in the foyer of the Goss household, with no one to talk to and nothing to do, she felt lonely. She hoped Emmerich would return soon.

Ascending the stairs, she went into his study. She tried reading, settling herself in the desk chair with a textbook on steam power, but her eyes glazed over after the second sentence. Water and steam didn't have the same artistry as clockwork.

There was beauty in a complex array of gears.

Petra placed the book face down on the desktop. One of the machines decorating Emmerich's shelves drew her gaze, and she rose from the desk for a closer look. It was a tiny, triangular thing, barely the size of her palm. She wondered what it was supposed to do but saw no schematics or design outlines for it, only a smattering of tiny gears and springs not yet added to the device. Whatever it was, Emmerich had crafted it so beautifully, so delicate and ornate, with a filigree of gilded brass fixed to a clockwork center, that she feared if she touched it, it would break.

Moving on, she admired the other machines he had built—­the brass marionette and the bucking horse, a musical dancer that moved with incredible precision and grace, a wind-­up carriage, and a mechanical bird that chirped a brassy tune—­all artfully designed, no practicality or purpose to them beyond pure entertainment, merely beauty for the sake of beauty. In that moment, Petra felt a rush of affection toward Emmerich. Here was a man who looked upon a collection of gears and metal and thought only of how to transform it into art—­and the Guild had corrupted that.

Drifting away from the machines, she dared to investigate the rest of Emmerich's chambers. She found his bedroom ordinary—­relatively clean, with a few things scattered here and there across the floor. His bed was unmade, with a ­couple of garments tossed over the bed railing. The room smelled like him, a hint of metal and oil lingering in the air, brought home from his hours of work at the University. Breathing in the scent of him, she sat on the bed and lay back on the pillow, missing his warmth.

As she lay there, exhaustion fell upon her, only just realizing how tired she was. The comfort of his bed lulled her into drowsy contentment, and she wrapped herself up his sheets and blankets, enveloped in his scent and the daydream of his warmth, wishing only that it was his arms around her instead of mere blankets. With a sigh, she closed her eyes, remembering the late nights they used to spend in the University workshops, designing the automaton that had gotten them into this mess. But as she lay there in his bed, with the memory of his lips against hers and the sound of his voice as he told her he loved her, she didn't regret a thing.

P
ETRA WOKE TO
the gray light of morning coming in through the large casement window on the other side of the room. The sun was not yet high enough above the city walls to cast its yellow glow onto the street, leaving the house a bit chilly. She had been dreaming of Emmerich, of his warm body next to hers, whispers of love between them. Even awake, she still felt his warmth, his metallic smell in the air. Her eyes still closed, she inhaled deeply, drinking the air as she held onto the last remnant of her dream.

Sleepily, she propped herself up on the bed, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. With a jolt, she realized she had fallen asleep in Emmerich's bed, and wondered if perhaps the sensation of lying beside him had been more than a dream, but as she blinked the room into view, she saw that he wasn't there. The clock above his mantel read a little after six o'clock. Perhaps he had already risen, or never returned home. The thought worried her.

She fell back on the pillow, hoping to sleep a bit longer.

A sharp rap at the study door spoiled her wishes—­it was probably Kristiane or Josie come to look for her. Her roommate would have noticed her absence the night before. Maybe if she didn't answer, they'd go away.

“Emmerich, get out of bed,” said Mr. Goss, his voice booming from the hallway. “We have work to do.”

Petra's heart jumped into her throat, and she leapt out of bed, catching sight of herself in the mirror as she searched for a place to hide. Her hair was disheveled and her uniform rumpled and creased from wearing it as a nightgown. Posing as a maid cleaning Emmerich's room was out of the question. His father would recognize her, with or without a tidy uniform.