The Mechanical Theater (7 page)

Dahlia tightened her jaw. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“I saw the bruise, Dahlia.”

She shook her head. “That was nothing,” she said, her voice quivering. “I tripped backstage, fell over a discarded costume.”

Solomon sighed, a frown on his face. “Why do you do this to yourself? Why do you pretend that nothing is wrong when I can see it in your eyes every single moment we’re together?” His chest tightened at the look in her eyes. “Dahlia, I see the way he touches you, the way he—­”

“You don’t know anything,” she said sharply, her voice breaking. Her eyes watered and her lips trembled. “Just leave it alone, Solomon. It isn’t your business.”

He frowned. “You’re right,” he said, shoving his fists into his pockets. “It isn’t.” He wanted to say more but he couldn’t seem to find the words, torn between wanting to argue with her and comforting her. “I should be going,” he said finally, his voice low. “Goodbye, Dahlia.” He turned his back on her then and walked away before he said anything he might regret, every small bit of happiness he had felt upon seeing her slipping away with the bitter wind.

CHAPTER SIX

S
olomon rapped his knuckles against the open garage door. “Hello?” His voice echoed throughout the shop. “Mr. Allen?”

No one answered.

He crossed the concrete floor, passing a half-­dismantled rickshaw and a table of spare parts and tools. The sound of a hammer tinking away on a piece of metal pinged through the garage, and Solomon followed the sound to a narrow doorway in the back of the shop. He wedged through two wide shelves stuffed with greased motor parts and peeked through the door.

“Hello? Mr. Allen?”

The hammer ceased and a chair scraped across the concrete floor. The garage owner appeared a moment later, wiping his hands on a grease-­stained rag. “Can I help you, lad?”

Solomon cleared his throat. “I don’t know if you remember me, sir, but a few weeks ago I helped you move some boxes in from the street.”

Mr. Allen raised his eyebrows and smiled. “Ah, yes. Ward, was it?”

“Wade, sir.”

“That’s right,” he said with a nod. “Solomon, yes.” He stuffed the filthy rag into his pocket. “What can I do for you?”

Solomon scratched under the brim of his hat and cleared his throat. “I was wondering if maybe I could have a job, sir.”

The garage owner ran his fingers over his thinning black hair. “Well I know you have the muscle for it. What do you know of rickshaw mechanics?”

“I know basic enginery. I work the boilers underneath the fourth quadrant, but I have worked on the mainline subcity engines a few times.”

“Subcity engines, you say?” Mr. Allen arched an eyebrow and scratched the scruffy beard along his jaw. “And you work the boilers now?”

“I do, sir. Night shifts, so I can work whatever hours you need during the day.”

Mr. Allen narrowed his eyes and nodded distractedly. “I can take on another lad, I think.” He rubbed his forehead and fixed his gaze on Solomon. “The shop’s open five to ten in the morning and four to eight in the evening, closed on Sundays. I can pay you . . .” He closed his eyes and quickly mumbled a string of numbers under his breath. “ . . . a sovereign per week. It’s not much, but it’s what I can offer.”

Solomon calculated the earnings in his head. Forty pence a day was just shy of four and a half per hour. He raised his eyebrows. Working at the garage during the day and, at minimum, eight-­hour shifts in the boilers, he’d make—­he added the wages on his fingers—­almost two quid a week, well over twice what he was making now. Two weeks of solid work and he could afford a bottle of medicine for Emily with a bit of change to spare. He frowned, realizing that if he had to work a ten or a twelve our shift, those hours would run over into the morning garage hours. He glanced up at Mr. Allen. “Could you pay me by the hour? I know it’s a bit of trouble, but the night shifts sometimes go until ten in the morning.”

The shop owner narrowed his eyes and scratched the coarse hair on his chin. He nodded slowly. “If you let me know ahead of time, I can pay you for half-­days and make sure my other man is here those mornings.”

“You’d do that, sir?”

“Aye.” He smoothed his hair away from his forehead. “I know what it’s like to work those shifts. I don’t want you half dead by the time you get to me. When can you start?”

Solomon smiled. “Right away, sir.”

I
n less than two weeks Solomon learned to perform basic repairs on the rickshaw engines, and when he wasn’t turning bolts or holding a motor part steady for Mr. Allen, he moved crates across the shop, unloaded engines from trucks, and helped move parts in and out of broken rickshaws. And he enjoyed it. The money was good enough to pay for Emily’s medicine, and though food had gone scarce in the flat, Emily’s condition was no longer worsening, so no one complained.

“Pass me that wrench, lad,” said Mr. Allen, standing over the guts of a dead steam rickshaw.

Solomon fetched the tool out of the bin and handed it to him.

The courthouse bell tower rang out the hour. It was six o’clock, almost time for dinner. Solomon’s stomach grumbled. In two hours, he could go home and eat. Maybe Constance managed to get a meat pie or another bag of cakes from Thomas.

“What did I do with those bolts?” asked Mr. Allen, checking his pockets.

“Here, sir. On the wheel well.” Solomon snatched the tray of bolts off the well and held it out to him.

“Thank you, lad.” He took two in his hand and leaned back into the engine cavity, grease painting his fingers black. He withdrew a moment later and wiped his forehead, dragging a streak of grease across his skin. “There. That ought to do it for today. We can replace the engine tomorrow.” He wiped his hands on his trousers. “You go on home.”

“Are you sure, sir?”

The shop owner rubbed his nose. “I think I can manage anything that comes in before we close. What time can I expect you tomorrow?”

Solomon grabbed a grease rag off a table and wiped his hands clean before removing his coveralls. “My shift at the boilers ends around ten, so not until the afternoon.”

Mr. Allen frowned. “You work too much, lad.”

“I have to, sir.” He draped his coveralls over a clothes rack made of fitted pipes. “See you tomorrow.”

He left the garage through the side door, grabbing his coat on the way out. He slipped his arms into the sleeves and buttoned it up to his throat. There was no wind or snow that night, only a soft breeze.

He glanced toward Delaney. A few rickshaws sputtered down the street, pressing through the throngs of finely dressed shoppers. Shoving his hands into his pockets, Solomon strode to the north end of Brancaster, stopped at the corner, and leaned against the whitewashed brick of the dress shop. He stared down the street at the theater, dim gaslight glowing through the fogged glass of the brass-­gilded doors. A moment later, he saw Dahlia stride up to the theater entrance with hurried steps. When she reached the door, she paused and whipped around, as if sensing that she was being watched. Her hair fell loose from her scarf, the hem of her coat flaring around her ankles as she turned.

Solomon ducked around the corner before she spotted him, pressing his back against the white brick. He couldn’t face her, not after the way they left it. Gritting his teeth at his own cowardice, he turned his back to the theater and jerked his collar up, increasing the distance between them with hastened steps.

T
he next evening, he went straight home from the repair shop to get ready for his shift at the boilers. As he approached the door to their building and reached for the handle, the creaky door swung open and Dahlia stepped into the street, wiping her eyes. Solomon retracted his hand just as she turned and spotted him.

She shuffled backward a few steps, eyes wide. “Solomon, I—­” She laughed nervously and cleared her throat. “H-­How are you?”

He frowned and pointed to the door. “Were you just in my apartment?”

“I—­” She sniffled and bowed her head, fiddling with the ends of her coat sleeves. “I came to see you.”

“But how did you know where I lived?”

She tilted her head, still staring at her fidgeting hands. “I followed you last night.” She raised her eyes to his. “I thought I saw you outside the theater, and well . . . I felt so bad about how we left it last. I haven’t stopped thinking about it since, and I wanted to—­” She pursed her lips and sighed. “I wanted to see you. I’ve missed you at the theater, you know.” She bowed her head with a frown. “I’m sorry about Emily. Your sister told me how you’ve been working two jobs to help care for her. She’s the reason you left.”

“Yeah,” he said quietly, his voice cracking.

“Do you think you’ll come back to the theater once Emily is better?”

“I’d like to.”

They stood in awkward silence for a moment, and Solomon rubbed the back of his neck, staring at a loose cobblestone in the street. He tried to clear the dryness in his throat, unsure of what to say, whether he should ask about the play or—­

“Would you like to walk with me?” she asked suddenly.

He glanced up at her and nodded. “All right.”

She slipped her gloved hand into the crook of his elbow, and they walked toward Medlock, breathing in the warm air vented from the subcity below. Snow lined the edges of the road, and the gas lamps fluttered in a faint sea breeze, a brief calm in the last days of December. Dahlia leaned into him, resting her head on his shoulder.

Solomon frowned, his chest tightening as he felt the warmth of her body next to his. “Dahlia . . .” he said slowly. “Are we ever going to talk about what happened?”

She tensed beside him. “What do you mean?” she asked, her voice strained.

He sighed heavily and drew to a stop, focusing on the contrast of her dark makeup against her pale skin. “Between you and Mr. Creighton.”

Dahlia drew away, her mouth twisting into a frown. “Why must you ask about that?”

Solomon sighed. “Dahlia—­”

“Just leave it alone,” she said quietly. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“No,” he said, his brow tightening. “I
won’t
leave it alone, not this time. I know what I saw, Dahlia. I won’t ignore what is happening to you, what
he
is doing to you.” He swallowed thickly, anger rising in his chest. “I won’t stand by and watch as he hurts you. You deserve better than him, than that.”

She bit her lip and glanced away, her blonde curls framing her flushed face. “I told you—­it was nothing. I fell. That’s all.”

“We both know that’s a lie,” he said softly. His chest ached and he moved toward her a step. “Damien did that to you. He struck you hard enough to leave a bruise. And it wasn’t the first time, was it?” He frowned at her silence. “Please, Dahlia. I only want to help.”

Dahlia hugged her arms around her chest. “You can’t,” she whispered. “No one can.”

Solomon laid a hand on her shoulder. “Then at least help me understand.”

She closed her eyes and sighed, shaking her head. “You would hate me if I told you, and I—­” She pressed her lips together and turned away. “I couldn’t bear that.”

“Dahlia,” he said softly. “There’s nothing you could say that would make me hate you.”

She scoffed. “You say that now, but if you knew . . .”

“I’d rather know the truth than see you like this,” he said. “Whatever it is.”

Dahlia fixed him with her dark brown eyes, her gaze unwavering, full of determination. “You
really
want to know?”

“Yes.”

She exhaled a heavy sigh and straightened, raising her eyes to the rooftops of the nearest buildings. “There’s really not much to tell, I suppose. Damien . . . he got me a role in a production a ­couple of years ago. I was sixteen.” She frowned, and her gaze wandered to the faintly glowing moon. “Up to that point, I had auditioned for every single play for the last few years but I never got a part. I almost gave up, but then I met Damien—­a charming, handsome actor already employed at the theater—­and I thought perhaps
he
could get me a role if only I . . .” She cleared her throat. “ . . . if only I
did
something for him.” She lowered her eyes. “I’m sure you can guess what it was,” she added with a sniffle.

Solomon stood silently, a nerve jumping in his jaw. His chest tightened and he crumpled the cuff of his coat sleeves in his fists. “Why?” he asked, his voice breaking.

“I know what you must think of me, but you have to understand,” she said shakily, tears shimmering in her eyes. “I never wanted anything more than to be on that stage, to be the leading actress in a Le Theatre Mecanique production, and he . . . he promised me that.” She sighed. “I thought he loved me. I thought he cared. But by the time I realized the truth, that he just . . .
used
me . . . it was too late.”

Solomon gritted his teeth, his hatred of Damien building in his chest like a furnace fire. He swallowed against the tightness in his throat. “And now? Why do you stay with him?”

Dahlia raised her bright, teary eyes to his and blinked, her tears falling in earnest now, forming shadowy rivulets down her cheeks. Her chin trembled. “What choice do I have?”

“You can leave him,” he said, reaching forward and grabbing her hands. “You don’t have to put yourself through that, whatever you may think.”

She shook her head. “I can’t say no to him. If I did, everything I worked for, all those things I did, would be for nothing. If I leave him, he’ll force Mr. Niles to fire me from the theater.” Her eyes widened. “And then I’ll be worse off than before, with the stigma of being a—­a—­” She closed her eyes, and fresh tears spilled over her cheeks. “A
harlot
.”

“Dahlia,” he said softly. “He can’t make Mr. Niles do anything.”

“But he can!” Her lip trembled. “His father is one of the theater’s owners. A word from him, and Mr. Niles won’t have a choice.”

A lump rose in his throat. “Is it worth it, staying with him just because you’re afraid of losing your job at the theater?”

“Yes,” she whispered. She dropped her chin and sniffled. “And maybe that’s the worst of it,” she said, shaking her head. “I’ll do anything to keep my job at the theater. I don’t want to lose everything I’ve worked for. This life . . .” She inhaled a deep breath. “This life means
everything
to me, and I don’t care what I have to do to keep it.”

Solomon let go of her hands and stepped away, gritting his teeth. “Well then I hope you remember that the next time he strikes you. When you’re battered and broken and you can’t even take the stage because of what he’s done to you. Tell me
then
that it’s worth it.” His throat tightened, and he could say nothing else, venting the rest of his anger with a sharp breath.

Dahlia raised her chin and stared at him, her lips trembling. “That’s not fair.”

“It’s not meant to be fair,” he said, his voice rising. “You can’t honestly believe that staying with him is worth the bruises and the heartache. You can hide it all you want. You can deny that anything is wrong, but that doesn’t change the fact that what he is doing is wrong, and he will keep on hurting you—­over and over again—­until you get away from him. Don’t you see?” He stepped closer. “Dahlia,
please
,” he said more gently. “Don’t do this to yourself.”