The Earl of Brass (The Ingenious Mechanical Devices Book 1) (4 page)

“Doesn’t Eliza get bored at home all day?”

Hawthorne pulled Eilian forward to wrap the gauze around his back. “At home, yes, but she isn’t there all the time. She likes to accompany me when I lecture at the university. She has access to the library if she uses my name, and she also helps me with autopsies and gathers whatever I need from the shops.” He sighed. “Honestly, it’s really all below her talents unfortunately. These holidays we go on help to break up the monotony for her and hopefully will bolster her spirits.”

He clumsily dropped Eilian back into a sitting position. “I hope you know, James, you handle your patients like corpses.”

The doctor grinned and made quick work of changing the dressings on Eilian’s leg and his other stitches. He then looked down his throat, checking for inhalation burns but instead was hit with what he could only imagine was the dragon breath created by red pepper and curry. Considering what he had gone through, the archaeologist appeared to be in surprisingly good spirits.

“You’re in rather good shape, but I have to wonder how you damaged your arm so severely. Do you remember what happened?”

He sighed. The whole incident came only in bursts of color and sensation. There was smoke and the call of voices in the distance before— “I was trying to get out, but I became disoriented. I remember a loud groan, and suddenly one of the support beams was on top of me.”

James shook his head, wiping the blood and petroleum from his hands with a scrap of gauze. “I am so sorry about all this, Eilian.”

“At least I’m not throwing up,” he laughed softly, his ribs aching with each chuckle. “So how long will I be stuck in bed?”

Hawthorne washed his hands in the bathroom but called over his shoulder, “As soon as you are strong enough, you can move around.”

Patrick’s eyes bulged in their sockets as he pictured Lord Sorrell attempting to conquer the stairs the moment the doctor left. “Are you positive he should be mobile in this state?”

“The thing is, burns tend to web together if one is stationary for too long. I tried to wrap everything separately to prevent that, but getting up as soon as possible will probably be best.”

Color flushed Eilian’s eyes and cheeks. “That’s wonderful!”

“Don’t look too excited. You are not to attempt the stairs until you can walk on your own, and I want you to use Sinclair for support until you are strong enough. Until you’re at least three-quarters of the way healed, there will be no jumping, running, fighting, climbing, or heavy-lifting. You will never heal if you continually open your wounds from overexertion. Sinclair is to send for me if you are not following my orders, and then, I will sentence you to bed rest.”

“The other doctors suggested I give him a bland diet until he was recovered,” Patrick blurted as he wrung his hands.

James rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Pure quackery. He can have whatever he wants. Give him bland food, and he will die of melancholy.” Despite the bruising, his friend still looked himself, cheerful and bright-eyed. “You will have to wait until the swelling goes down, but I know a wonderful prosthesis maker in the city. I will give you the address when I return tomorrow to change your dressings.”

The Craftsman’s Requiem

The craftsman sat at his work bench, staring blankly at his latest project. A prosthetic arm of porcelain and metal laid in pieces before him. Pain radiated through his ribs as a dull, itching ache, but he resisted the persistent urge to cough to keep from alerting his younger sister. He drew in a deep breath. In the past, he had been able to create a detailed, highly functional prosthesis in less than a fortnight, but recently, it had taken him at least a month or more for even the simplest creation now that he barely worked more than a few hours each day. He looked out at his kingdom of wood-shavings and dust. On the other side of the room, his sister’s automatons laid in boxes or in pieces ready to be assembled. She was always working, but he only had one project left. The artisan had slept all night and nearly half the day, yet he could feel his eyelids drooping. As he drew in a crackling breath, a string of forceful coughs escaped his lips. In the palm of his hand was a splatter of gooey, carmine blood. It happened so often now that it barely bothered him to see his own blood and torn tissue. The boards in the hall creaked, so he quickly wiped away the blood with his handkerchief, stuffed it in his pocket, and grabbed his screwdriver.

“George, I brought you some lunch,” Hadley called cheerfully behind him as she came in with his lunch tray.

Her older brother’s blue eyes and red hair matched her own but had dulled as his consumption progressed. She laid a bowl of soup and a sandwich on the table and peeked over his shoulder at the numerous pieces of an unfinished arm and hand. Lovingly wrapping her arms around his neck, she stood on tiptoe until her cheek was resting on the top of his head. He held onto her arms and smiled. The icy chill of his palms made the hairs on her arms stand on end.

“How’s the arm coming along?”

“Good, I’m just taking a moment to visualize how it will turn out.”

Her eyes ran over the perfectly molded fingers affixed to a thin sheet of brass. “It already looks amazing. I hope I can be as good as you one day.”

“You already are,” he replied warmly. “Your automatons are more beautiful than anything I could dream up.”

She kissed his cheek. “No, you
are
the best. Always have been, always will be.”

George smiled weakly to himself. He wondered how long that would truly be. “Want to play a little game with me?” When she grinned, he continued, “Can you tell me anything about the person this prosthesis is being made for?”

Hadley gingerly picked up the plate of fingers and measured them against her own. They were longer and thicker without bulk or the nodules of arthritis. “Whoever this is for is taller than me, probably between five foot eight and five foot eleven. The fingers are not overly delicate but not gnarled like someone who has been working since they were young.”

Placing them down, she moved on to the beginnings of a forearm, which was still in pieces. She stacked the pieces into their future shape. “The arm is fairly muscular, so unless this was done for vanity, the owner works or is an athlete. Though it could be a burly woman, my guess is the owner is male.”

“Very good so far,” George replied with a nod. “How old do you think he is?”

Lying on a distant table near a stack of automata molds was a poured plaster cast of the left arm George had been using as a reference for the proportions of its twin. It had been taken from its owner’s remaining limb and beside it was the cast of a gnarled and scarred stump of a right arm. The left was shapely and strong but far from bulky. Hadley ran her fingers over his hand, which was smooth with only a few veins and nearly no damage from time. “Maybe mid- to late-twenties.”

“You astound me. You have read those Dupin stories too often, and now, you have a true eye for observation.”

As his sister blushed proudly, he grinned, revealing a sticky coating of blood over his teeth. The color rapidly drained from her face as she watched George’s thin chest heave with each thick, labored breath. Hadley’s heart sunk, beating off rhythm as she took in her brother’s cheerful face. Even on the best of days, his eyes were sunken and framed by greying skin. The bones jutted from his face and hands despite regular meals, eroding away the handsome man he had once been. The disease was gnawing at him from the inside out, consuming his fragile billows breath by labored breath. She was about to move back to the stool beside him when a wet breath hitched in his throat, sending out a series of forceful coughs that yanked at his ribs and stomach. Hadley patted his back to loosen the blood and winced as he gripped his breast and struggled against the spasms. The desperation with which his body screamed and gasped for air put her stomach in knots. With each measured breath, his ribs loosened, and finally he wiped the blood from his pale lips.

“I will get you cleaned up,” she whispered before hurrying to fetch a basin from the kitchen.

His gaunt features and hands were spattered with flecks of blood. He loosely clutched his now ruined handkerchief, but his sister pulled it from his grasp. Dipping a fresh cloth into the basin, she rinsed and rubbed each of his chilled, boney fingers and palms clean before wiping his mouth as gently as she would a child. Her older brother smiled softly as she kissed his freckled cheeks again and hugged him close, lingering to inhale his familiar scent of wood-shavings with a hint of metal.

Hadley sat on her stool and pushed the tray of food closer to him. “Why don’t you put the arm away for a bit and have something to eat? You need to keep up your strength.”

He shook his head. “I have wasted enough time working on the prosthesis for Lord Sorrell. After I finish the hand, I will eat.”

“Give it to me. I will work on it for you.”

Without waiting for George’s consent, she slid the half-built arm in front of her and replaced it with the tray. As he finally dipped into his soup, she screwed the remaining bent fingers to the brass plate and moved on to the thumb. Looking down at the prosthesis, she realized she had made more progress in five minutes than he had made in three days. Hadley slowed her pace. She loved him too much to take his pride and joy away from him. He needed work like this now more than ever to keep his mind off things. No matter how sick he was, she was amazed by her brother’s craftsmanship. The prosthesis was beautiful with its five perfect replica fingers and a smooth palm complete with lines, but it had become something upon which her brother’s life was being measured. More than anything, she wanted it out of the house.

Hadley leisurely shined and assembled the little pieces until she heard the tray slide against the work bench. “I can’t eat anymore.”

His sister frowned as she inventoried what was left on the plate, but he had done his best. Before stepping out, she hugged him again as was her custom and carried the nearly full tray back to the kitchen. As she dumped the remaining contents into the rubbish bin, she felt Adam’s eyes burning into her back. From the corner of her eye, she could see his dark red hair and bright blue vest as he sat at the table. Hadley resisted the urge to whip around and demand what he was staring at, so she kept scrubbing the dish and plate.

“Why haven’t you finished the viscount’s arm yet?” he asked a little more nicely than she expected.

“Because George is working on it.”

“But he won’t finish it.”

“What do you mean? He finishes everything.”

“Hadley,” she dropped the dish cloth upon hearing her name, “you know what I mean. You know he made his will last week. He left everything to us. Why pretend when even he knows?”

She finally whirled around, her red braid smacking her back as she met her twin’s light-eyed gaze. “How dare you wish your own brother into the grave!” she replied in a harsh whisper. “He has had relapses before, and he has pulled through
every
time.”

Adam rubbed his henna temples and drew in a deep breath. “George has never been this sick before. He looks like death already! I just want you to brace yourself for what may happen to him. You have to believe that I don’t say this to hurt you.”

“But I don’t believe you. You have always been jealous of his genius, his success, his ability to be liked by everyone. Now, you rejoice in your own brother’s illness for your own sick pleasure!” She dropped her voice. “I will have no part in your sick fantasies, Adam.”

As Hadley turned to leave, her twin caught her arm. Staring into her tearing, blue eyes, he pleaded, “I say all this because I love you. I don’t want you to fall to pieces when I’m proven right for once. I know you love him, but I just want you to be realistic. I’m not wishing ill on him. I love him too, but I saw you working on the arm—”

“That blasted arm again! Why are you fixated on this project? Let George work on it, and it will get done!”

“But it won’t, and Lord Sorrell is a paying customer who deserves a new limb in a timely manner.”

“It’s all he has left!” she seethed through clenched teeth as she defiantly wrenched her arm out of his hand. “Can you not allow him the one pleasure he has left?”

“You aren’t doing him any favors by carrying on like this, Hadley.”

“How would you know? You do not spend any time with him or worry about him. All you do is count his money.” When his eyes finally left hers, she continued, “Do you know how many nights I lie awake listening for a cough, so I know he is alive? Every night I stay up listening for that sound of life, so I know it will be a good day. Do you ever? No, I didn’t
think
you did.”

She fled the room with tears burning her eyes. George’s bedroom door slammed as she prepared to fix his bed for his afternoon nap. Adam sat back in the well-worn kitchen chair and closed his eyes as a feeble cough crackled from the workroom. Was he really as horrible a brother as she made him out to be? Even if he didn’t hug him or make his bed, he loved George like a second father. His sister was his best friend, but no matter what he did, it was never the right thing for her. All he wanted was for everything to be all right.

***

Hadley Fenice sat in bed leaning against the wall with her head pressed to the plaster that separated her from her older brother. One more cough, and she could go to sleep. She tugged the blankets closer against the chill of the dying fire. Her hair haloed around her head and shoulders as she held her knees and let her back nestle within the corner. The long hours of silence had taken their toll on her, and slowly her hands slackened before sliding off her legs as she drifted to sleep.

She awoke with a start. The sun was peeking through her curtains and across the rug to the closed door. Already she was late, but maybe Adam had made breakfast and let her sleep in. Throwing on her dressing gown, she knocked on George’s door. When no answer came from within, she silenced the squeaking hinge and crept next to his bedside. He didn’t stir, so she rubbed his shoulder over the blanket, speaking cheerfully of breakfast and the day ahead. As she touched his face, a bolt of panic lanced through her. Hadley felt his cheek and forehead with both sides of her hand, but they remained unmistakably cold. Pulling back the covers, she unbuttoned his night-shirt. His ribs poked out like knuckles in a glove two sizes too small, but when she put her ear to his chest, she could no longer hear the feeble sucking of his lungs that had so many times been a comfort in the silence.

His sister sat on the edge of the bed and carefully buttoned up his pajamas and smoothed his red hair from his forehead. In this pitiable state, he resembled a puppet with exaggerated features and ill-fitting clothing. Every trace of his beauty had wasted away, yet to her, they were just more subtle. He looked as if he would awake at any moment, but she knew it would never happen again. Hadley gently picked up his thin, calloused hand and held it between hers. Those hands had built a business and taught her how to make some of the most sought after toys in England, and it would be the last time she ever got to hold them tenderly as she had since she was a child. All she wanted to do was make him proud. Bending down, she kissed his hands, his hollowed cheeks, and finally his forehead before backing out of the room and shutting the door.

Adam turned the corner and immediately saw his sister’s ashen face and reddening eyes. “Hadley?”

“You were right,” was all she could choke out before running to the workroom. Locking the door behind her, Hadley sat on the floor amongst his books and blueprints. The pain finally hit her as she cried until only sound came out. Tears pooled on her collar or slipped into her mouth in salty trails. She wiped her cheeks with her sleeve. It finally hit her that her teacher, her brother and guardian was gone. There were only two he had left unfinished, and she was one of them.

***

Hadley sat with the little, wooden box in her lap, a coffin for his final project. It had only been a day since he was buried beside their parents, but she longed to rid the house of the other project that had outlived its creator. She had finished it within two hours and had it polished and ready to be delivered with instructions in half an hour. The steamer carriage rolled through the steep Greenwich hills, taking more time than she had wanted or anticipated. Staring out the window, she kept her eyes locked on the Gothic great house as it grew closer. In her grief, she had turned her anger upon the Viscount Sorrell, cursing the man for ever entering their shop. She told herself that if George hadn’t been working on the arm, he could have conserved his strength and recovered once more. He had been working too hard. The moment the steamer stopped in front of the house, she clambered out and stormed up to the door before the cabby could help her out.