The Brass Giant (22 page)

“Emmerich . . .” He opened the door with a growl.

With no other option, Petra dropped to the floor on the far side of the bed, slowly wedging herself as far under it as she could, covering her head with a bit of blanket that had fallen to the floor. Mr. Goss's heavy footsteps clunked across the room, stopping just on the other side of the bed. Petra dared not move—­or breathe—­her heart pounding violently against her ribs. She prayed he could not hear.

“Where is that damned boy?” he muttered.

“Father?” Emmerich entered the room and dropped his knapsack on the floor with a thud. “What are you doing in my room?”

Petra barely bit back her sigh of relief.

“Looking for you,” replied his father. “Where have you been? You are supposed to be at the University in twenty minutes.”

“Am I? What for?”

Emmerich's father snarled. “I told you yesterday. You have a meeting with Vice-­Chancellor Lyndon this morning, at half past six. If you miss it, he will not consider your junior council member application.”

Emmerich exhaled sharply. “And I told you—­I have no desire to be on the junior council. I'm not interested in the bureaucracy of the Guild. I'm an engineer, not a politician.”

“You will go, Emmerich, or I swear to you now, when we find your little girlfriend, I'll be certain she goes straight to the noose for her crimes.”

Emmerich hesitated, and Petra could feel the weight of his glare, even from her hiding place. “You gave your word that you'd leave her alone.”

“In exchange for
your
loyalty,” said Emmerich's father. “You
will
go to the meeting.”

“Fine,” he growled.

“Don't be late.” His father stormed out of the bedroom and slammed both the door to the study and the one to the hall.

The moment he was gone, Emmerich sighed and collapsed on the mattress. “Bastard.”

Petra carefully crawled out from underneath the bed and sat up on her knees, spying Emmerich lying across the bed, his arms folded comfortably behind his head, his eyes closed. With a lopsided grin, he inhaled a deep breath and mumbled, “It smells like Petra in here.”

She bit back a laugh and tenderly brushed his hair away from his eyes. “Good morning,” she whispered, stroking his soft hair.

He blinked his eyes open with a frown and glanced up at her from the bed. “Petra?” Unfolding his arms from behind his head, he sat up with a confused grin, running his fingers through his tousled hair. He had dark circles under his eyes. “What are you doing here?”

She felt the heat rise in her cheeks. “I fell asleep.”

“You slept
here
—­in my bed?” His smile tilted as he said it.

“A bit,” she said, her face flushing. “I didn't mean to. I just—­I was just looking around, and I sat down, and—­” She pressed her lips together, disarmed by the smile spreading across his lips. “What?”

“You're cute when you're flustered.”

She blushed even harder.

He only smiled and reached out his hand. “Come here. I want to kiss you.”

Petra took his hand, and he pulled her onto the bed, not at all gracefully. She tumbled into the blankets and landed beside him, their faces just mere inches apart. Her focus landed on his lips, acutely aware of his closeness, his warmth, the feel of his breath on her skin, and without another thought she closed her eyes and kissed him. His hand gently fell upon her waist, and her heartbeat quickened. She leaned into him, pressing her body against his, reveling in the ecstasy of kissing him, of lying here in his arms with no worries of the world on her mind.

Finally, she pulled away. “You're going to be late for your meeting.”

Emmerich glanced at the clock and frowned—­just ten minutes until he was supposed to meet Lyndon. He released a heavy sigh. “I would much rather stay here with you,” he said, slipping his hand into hers and lifting her fingers to his lips.

“Me too.”

Grudgingly, he climbed out of bed and ran some water at the sink, splashing his face and wetting his hair. He quickly combed his fingers through the damp mess and fetched a fresh shirt from his wardrobe, at least having the decency to change behind a screen.

Petra sat up on the edge of the bed. “So, where were you last night?”

“At the University,” he said, tossing his worn clothes aside. “After the council meeting was over, I stayed behind, trying to find evidence against Vice-­Chancellor Lyndon and my father. I ended up staying through the night.” He resurfaced fully dressed again, grabbing his suspenders and looping them into place.

“And did you find anything?” she asked.

“Maybe. As I was digging through some communications between Lyndon and my father, trying to find their motive, I started thinking about it, and I might have an idea why they started this whole thing in the first place.” He leaned against the bedpost and crossed his arms over his chest, his suspenders hanging limply from his trousers. “Profit.”

“Money?”

“Think about it—­if Great Britain goes to war with another country, the Guild stands to profit most. Think of the arms race a technological war would inspire, with the Guild secretly dealing to both sides, making money off their need to build bigger, faster, stronger machines. That's why whoever framed you sold designs to the anti-­imperialists. It was all part of their plan to incite conflict, to lure Great Britain into mobilizing.”

“Do you have proof?”

“Not enough.” He fetched his knapsack from the other end of the room and heaved it onto the tousled blankets. “Anything that might implicate the conspirators and expose their plot is in there, but we need more. We need something irrefutable. We should search the other offices tonight, once everyone leaves.” He gestured to the pack. “It won't be long before this is all found missing, and then we'll really be in trouble. Also—­” He reached into the front pocket of the knapsack. “I found these.” He held his hands aloft, his fingers clasped tightly around the secret objects. “I thought you might like them back.”

Petra crawled off the bed, and when he opened his hands, she beamed. “You didn't!”

“Under lock and key, but I found them.”

She took the pocket watch and screwdriver into her hands, holding them as if they were the greatest treasures in the world—­to her, they were. She stroked the intricate
C
on the pocket watch case, the familiarity of its shape a comfort to her. Now, she had in her possession all three keepsakes of her mother and her past life—­the watch, the screwdriver, and the ring. She touched the ring hidden beneath her blouse, resolving to show Emmerich later.

He quickly slipped on his shoes and tied the laces. “This meeting shouldn't take long. I expect my father has already paid for my position, so I don't much see the point of the interview, but as he seems intent on using you to get what he wants from me, I suppose I don't have much of a choice.” He stood and glanced at the clock. “All right, I have to go.” He kissed her lightly on the lips and stroked his thumb across her cheek. “I should be back soon, and then we'll go over our plans.”

“Be safe,” she said, brushing a loose thread from his shoulder.

“I will.” He kissed her again. “See you in about an hour or two.”

 

Chapter 19

P
ETRA SPENT
THE
rest of the morning poring over the papers Emmerich had brought, sifting through the stacks of letters, invoices, telegrams, and memorandums. Most of it suggested Emmerich's father was more involved in the conspiracy than either Lyndon or Mr. Fowler, but they had yet to investigate the other offices. They had enough evidence to show that the three men were up to something, but Petra didn't think there was enough to convince the rest of the Guild council it was anything dishonest. From what Emmerich had gathered, they could at best prove what the rest of the Guild already knew—­they were building an army of automatons for the British Empire. What she and Emmerich needed was evidence of the men's involvement with the anti-­imperialists, proof that they had framed Petra and meant to make a profit by dealing mechanized weapons to both sides of the war, fueling the arms race between them.

By lunchtime, when Emmerich still hadn't returned to the house from the University, Petra grew worried. She ate lunch with Biddy and Kristiane—­cold chicken and potatoes—­and then bathed, washing away the grime from the day before. She emerged from the bathroom renewed but with no less unease. Sitting at the vanity in her and Josie's room, she parted her damp hair and twisted a braid over her shoulder, taking her time. As she overlapped each strand of hair, the knots in her stomach tightened.

Emmerich should have returned home by now.

After dressing, she asked Kristiane if she had seen him.

“I haven't, miss. Neither him nor his father.”

Disconcerted, she busied herself with chores even though Emmerich had given all the maids the day off. Harriet had her beat the curtains and rugs in the alley. She and Josie swept and mopped the floors, dusted the stair railings, and soaped the furniture. She helped Biddy with dinner preparations, but as the day crept into evening and the girls sat down to eat, Emmerich still hadn't returned.

“Where
is
he?” Petra demanded, throwing her fork down at the kitchen table. She couldn't eat, not with her stomach so tense with worry.

“He usually stays at the University late hours,” said Harriet. “For several weeks there were nights when he didn't return until well after midnight.”

The nights she had helped him with the automaton.

“This is different,” said Petra. “He said he would be back soon.”

Josie arched an eyebrow. “So what if he did? It's none of our business where he is or what he does.”

“It matters to
me
,” she said, jumping up from the table, her pulse thundering in her ears. She was sick of it—­sick of pretending, sick of waiting, sick of worrying. Even in the short moments of distraction she spent with the other girls, listening to their talk or busying herself with cleaning, remaining silent about what was really going on ate away at her. She didn't want to pretend any longer.

“Don't be upset, goose,” said Harriet, patting her arm. “I'm sure everything is all right.”

Petra bristled. “You don't have any idea what's wrong, do you?”

“Miss Wade,” warned Kristiane.

“You don't!” She stormed across the kitchen with her hands clenched at her sides, infuriated that they didn't realize something was wrong. Emmerich should have been back from the University by now. None of them realized the danger he was in, the danger
she
was in. “I'm going to find him.”

Kristiane stood, nearly throwing her chair behind her. “Miss Wade, you can't.”

Petra swiveled. “I can, and I will.” She pushed through the door and dashed downstairs.

In her and Josie's bedroom, she quickly changed into her trousers and button-­up shirt, the clothes she had borrowed from Norris, hidden away in the back of the wardrobe so no one would throw them out. Once dressed and properly boyish, she ran upstairs to Emmerich's study and collected the prints of the Guild offices and a few key letters she had found among the assortment of evidence. She stuffed two more screwdrivers and the folded pages in her pockets. Descending the stairs, she passed Kristiane, Josie and Harriet, and Biddy at the bottom, refusing to stop for any of them, though they chided, begged, and demanded she tell them what was going on.

When she reached the front door, she paused, guilt crashing down on top of her. None of them deserved such rudeness. With a sigh, she turned away from the door and faced them. “I can't really tell you much of what's going on, but trust me when I say that this is important, that Emmerich needs me right now and I have to go to him.”

“Miss Wade—­” said Kristiane, coming forward.

“No, I can't stay any longer,” she said, curling her fingers around the door handle. “I'm sorry, Kristiane. I know you mean well, but I won't sit here and do nothing when I know he's in trouble. Goodbye.”

Pushing through the door, she burst into the street and sprinted for the University, hoping against hope she might stumble upon Emmerich on his way home but knowing she wouldn't. Deep down, she knew the conspirators on the Guild council had captured him.

And right now, she was the only one who could help him.

T
HE
U
NIV
ERSITY TOWERED
ahead, a gleaming brass beacon of intellect and progress, a symbol of Petra's highest aspirations. Now, when she ascended the steps, facing the very real possibility of being captured and imprisoned again, the building loomed like a treacherous, towering prison. But she could not turn back. Emmerich needed her.

Her skin quivered as she passed over the threshold, filling her heart with dread instead of delight. The rich scent of paraffin permeated the entrance hall, and the steady hum of gears and ticking wheels sang to her. She strode to the lift, feeling the vibrations of the subcity with each step. Goose bumps erupted across her arms. Her senses sharpened. She felt more alive than she had in weeks. She was finally
doing
something.

Once inside the lift, she whipped out her screwdriver and pulled the control panel apart. Emmerich had drawn a diagram of the panel and explained to her how to operate the lift without a key. She stripped the plating from the podium and plunged her hands inside.

She fiddled with a few wires, quickly manipulating the circuit to falsely detect a key, and as the drive motor spun to life, she nearly laughed. She pressed the button that led to the upper Guild offices and yanked the knob at the bottom of the panel. The gearbox shifted, and the bulb above the podium flared. With her foot pressed against the back of the lift, she placed both hands on the lever and pulled. The lever resisted, but she managed to move it. The whirring of the drive motor slowed, the driveshaft locked, and the lift began to rise.

Releasing the lever, she grabbed hold of the lift railing and felt her heartbeat quicken. When she had first ridden the lift with Emmerich on their trip to the observatory, she had been thrilled, a bundle of nervous excitement. Now, with each floor she passed, the dread in the pit of her stomach doubled, a mass of fear and worry. As the gearbox shifted to a slower speed, the anxiety climbed into her chest, her whole body tense. She had no idea where Emmerich might be—­if he was even still in the University—­but if she could find enough evidence against Lyndon or the other conspirators, she might be able use it to barter him back.

The lift clattered to a stop, the glass door swiveled open, and Petra stepped out onto the Guild office floor.

Electric candelabras lined the walls, flickering with the rolling power surges of the University machines. The layout of the offices was similar to that of the offices where Emmerich worked; the main hall ran the full length of the floor, with the second lift chute at the end. The air smelled of metal mixed with a dusty, cigar-­smoke musk.

Petra examined the rows of doors. Emmerich could be behind any of them.

Stealthily, she crept down the hall, reading the plaques mounted on the doors until she found Lyndon's office. Further evidence might be inside, perhaps enough to trade for Emmerich, whether he was somewhere in the University or in the prison cells beneath the first quadrant. Petra quietly removed the door handle with her screwdriver and popped the lock open by pressing the tumbler pins. The door creaked open and she slipped inside.

Searching for a light switch, she ran her hand across the wall next to the door, quickly finding a tiny lever set into the paneling. She switched it on. The electricity popped behind the switch plate, and a tuft of smoke filtered out around the edges as bright yellow light flooded the room. She stood in a handsome office, equipped with a large wooden desk, several bookshelves, tables, and a display cabinet. A second door stood at the far wall, slightly ajar.

She rushed to the desk, yanking drawers open and spilling the vice-­chancellor's files onto the floor until hundreds of pages littered the foot of the desk. She brushed files and letters aside, searching for something, anything that might be of use, anything Emmerich might have missed. She scanned letter after letter—­invoice reports, intracompany communications, student applications, and project completion notices—­but came across nothing that might implicate him as a conspirator behind the war, no letters or telegrams like Emmerich had found before. Even then, everything he had found condemned his father, not Lyndon. There wasn't even a tiny scrap of paper with the vice-­chancellor's signature on it. Either the vice-­chancellor had been more careful than the other Guild council members, or Emmerich had found all there was to find. She frowned, staring at the scattered letters. Or maybe Lyndon was innocent of the whole thing . . . But how could that be?

Petra moved from the desk to the cabinets, tossing trinkets, plaques, and machine parts to the floor as she emptied the shelves and drawers—­but still nothing. Then she noticed a single closed drawer in the display case, a lock centered in the bottom panel. She stared at the thin drawer. If she was to find anything of importance, anything Lyndon wanted to hide, it must be there. Crouching on her knees, she fiddled with the lock, poking her screwdrivers into the slot like she had seen Norris do when he had picked the lock to get into the pawnshop. Her knees started to cramp before she managed to open it.

The lock clicked and the panel popped outward a bit. Petra pocketed the screwdrivers and carefully pulled the slender drawer from the base of the display case. There was an assortment of things—­a book of photographs, a vintage revolver, a dead pocket watch, and a small, charred pocket journal. The burned book drew her eye, bound in good quality leather with the letters
A. F.
embossed on the cover. The pages within were mostly undamaged, though the smell of smoke still infused the yellowing paper.

Petra carefully opened to the first page and found that it was a drafting journal. The first few pages showed descriptions for an automatic ticket machine, one of the earliest models she knew about. The handwriting around the diagrams was thin and loopy, feminine. There were other designs in the journal—­a steam rickshaw, the trolley-­lift in the second quadrant, cylindrical lifts similar to those in the University, a steam car, and several clockwork designs—­including a pocket watch on the last few written pages. Several blank pages followed, but Petra's focus remained on the pocket watch.

It wasn't just any pocket watch. It was
her
pocket watch, the one her mother had given her, the one that held her mother's love in the casing. Petra knew without having to compare; the drawing was identical to the schematics she had sketched all those weeks ago. The engineer had drawn a perfect representation of the double mainspring, with all the proper measurements and dimensions. She knew, without a hint of doubt, that this journal had been her mother's, and as confirmation, scrawled beneath the completed design were the words:
for Petra.

A tear splashed on the page, and Petra quickly dabbed it away with the cuff of her sleeve before it smudged the ink. Why did Lyndon have it locked away in his office? How did he come by it? She flipped through the pages again, to see if there was anything else, and tucked within the leather cover found a small photograph.

The subject had moved before the shutter properly closed, her face a blur across the sepia-­toned paper. She sat before a desk, its surface covered in papers and drafting materials, a half-­constructed mechanism sitting atop it. The woman in the portrait was her mother, leaning forward with a laugh on her lips and a pencil behind her ear, and there was Petra, sitting at her mother's feet—­a small child playing with a mechanized toy train, the most determined frown of concentration on her face. She could not help but smile, wiping away the tears on her cheeks.

Petra touched her mother's smile in the photograph, and her chest tightened with a deep ache, wishing more than ever that her mother had not died, that the University fire had never happened. With a sniffle, she replaced the photograph in the leather sleeve and pocketed the journal.

She lifted the photograph album out of the drawer next, wondering if perhaps there was another picture of her mother within, but as she brought the album into her lap, she heard the sound of footsteps coming down the hall.

Her heart shot into her throat, pulsing in her ears with the drowning rush of blood. Gripping the album to her chest, Petra darted for the door at the back of the room and slipped into the dark closet. Carefully pulling the door closed, she peered into the office, expecting to see Lyndon enter the room and stumble into the mess she had made, but as seconds passed into minutes, the door still did not open.

A sudden sound behind her made her jump, and pushing the door open to let more light in, she saw Emmerich lying bound on the floor, a gag in his mouth. Her heart ached at the sight of him, his hair lank and sweaty across his forehead, a bruise purpling his cheek.